I Am and Always Shall Be Your Friend
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Sherlock must reveal a deeply kept secret in order to save his friends, but it brings about the attention and revenge of a new enemy. What must he do to keep those he loves safe? AU.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

 **Yay, I'm back!**

 **This story takes place directly after the incident at the pool but without all the Irene Adler drama.**

* * *

 _BANG!_

The door slammed shut, and they all turned towards it in alarm. John rushed forward as Greg joined him, trying to find a way to get it open.

"Don't bother!" shouted Hawkins from his spot across the room, strapped to the chair. "It's sealed. Trust me, there's no way out."

Sherlock turned, his eyes scanning the walls and ceiling.

Donovan rushed over to the bomb as it counted down. "There's gotta be something—"

"There's nothing," sneered Hawkins. "Nothing's going to stop this bomb."

"Oh, dear…" said Mrs. Hudson, wringing her hands.

"What do we do?" asked Molly, staring at the bomb behind Hawkins.

John pointed at Sherlock. "Mind palace!"

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock, looking up at him.

"Use your mind palace!" said John.

"How will that help?" asked Sherlock.

"You've salted away every fact under the sun!" shouted John.

Sherlock's voice rose as well. "Oh, and you think I've just got 'How to Defuse a Bomb' tucked away in there somewhere?"

"Yes!"

Sherlock paused. "Maybe." He brought his hands to either side of his head and closed his eyes in concentration.

"Are we really—" Anderson began.

"Shut it!" hissed John.

Sherlock dug through his mind palace for a while, getting more and more frustrated. After a while, he finally shouted and dropped his hands, looking up at them all in defeat.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed John, turning away.

Sherlock rushed over to the bomb, his eyes raking over every inch of that bomb.

"Give it up!" taunted Hawkins with a laugh. "There's no blue wire to cut, there's no off switch, there's no special sequence of steps. There's only one way to shut down this bomb, and it's in my head."

Sherlock turned towards him.

"There's no time to try different codes and no time to get me to talk." Hawkins turned his head towards him. "Let's face it: there's no way out this time." He smirked in victory. "Just lie back and lose."

"Oh, my God…" muttered Molly, staring at the floor in disbelief.

Sherlock stared back at the bomb in shock. Hawkins was right; his boss had pulled out all the stops. There was absolutely no way to disarm this bomb except the code locked inside Hawkins' head. He glanced up at the countdown on the bomb: 2:08.

Sherlock turned back towards the room, staring around at each of his friends and colleagues. Each person was off in their own world, despair overwhelming them. He stared sadly down at the floor. There was nothing else he could do.

This was the end.

* * *

 **Yes, it's short and confusing, but it'll get better. I'm writing this in the style of an episode starting out in the height of action and then going back to see what led to it. Have patience.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

 **In my timeline, "The Great Game" took place almost six months after "The Blind Banker."**

 **Also, I made up the location for the black tramway tunnel in "The Blind Banker." I couldn't find the actual location from the show, but since General Shan said "from the shores of NW1," I figured this meant the tramway was in the NW1 postal code of London (which, FYI, is where Baker Street is located).**

* * *

 **Earlier that day…**

Doctor John Watson woke to the sound of a violin floating up the stairs. Thankfully, it was a soft, melodic song that didn't grate at the ears. That had, unfortunately, been the norm for almost the past week while they had been dealing with Jim Moriarty. While his flatmate tried to think through every one of Moriarty's press-ganged suicide bombers, he would take up his violin whenever he was in their flat at 221B Baker Street and scrape the bow across the strings, his music reflecting the mindset within. Thankfully after the incident at the pool three days ago, it had begun to taper off, and it looked like the man had finally let the whole thing go.

 _About time,_ John thought as he flung the covers off of himself and threw his legs over the sides of the bed.

His flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, was a brilliant man and a competent detective, but sometimes, his need to get to the bottom of a mystery bordered on the unhealthy. The man would not let anything distract him from his work, not sleep, not food, not anything. And if that answer continued to elude him, he was liable to go out of his mind. It was a stark contrast—and yet, strikingly similar—to the frenzy he worked himself into when he was bored. It was almost as though he weren't human, a machine built solely for puzzle-solving that melted down when it couldn't perform its job. And John was glad that Sherlock had either found the solution he was looking for or had deemed it not important enough to pursue.

John pulled himself to his feet, grabbing his robe from the end of his bed and wrapping it around himself over his loose pants and shirt. Opening the door of his room, he headed down the stairs to the first floor, where the main area of the flat sat. Walking past the door of the sitting room, he crossed the landing towards the other door, heading into the kitchen. Pulling two cups and saucers out of the cupboards, he filled the tea kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil.

Sherlock continued to play as he headed upstairs to quickly shower and then return downstairs in his jeans and button-down shirt, hurrying over to the whistling kettle and turning it off. Throwing the tea quickly together, he carried the two saucers into the sitting room, setting one down on the table.

Sherlock stood at the window between the table and the fireplace, his back to the rest of the room and swaying slightly as he played. As per usual when not on a case, he was wearing his blue dressing gown over his black trousers and purple dress shirt. He made no indication that he knew John had entered the room, but John had no doubt that Sherlock knew he was there.

Once his hand was free, John grabbed the abandoned newspaper from the table and sat in his armchair with his tea to read it. He was halfway through the second article when Sherlock abruptly dropped the violin and bow to his sides and turned towards John.

"When is your physical therapy session?"

John shook his head with a fond smile, not looking up from his paper. "I'm not even going to ask how you knew that."

Sherlock took a quick breath to answer quickly. "When putting your jacket on, you put it onto your left arm first so that it is your right arm straining to get the rest of it on. When carrying the shopping in the other day, you elected to carry all the bags with your right hand, even though you could have split then with the left. When in public, you make sure to—"

John had glanced up halfway through the deduction and now interrupted him. "You know, that wasn't an actual invitation to tell me how."

"Oh," said Sherlock, glancing down at his violin and fiddling with the pegs absently.

John rolled his eyes and set the paper down on his lap. "Oh, go on, then."

Sherlock immediately looked up at him. "You make sure to put distance between your left side and everyone else. However, this behavior only began two days ago, but was not present the day before that, therefore, the aggravation of the old bullet would in your left shoulder happened that night. They jarred it when they kidnapped you." He looked back down at the violin.

John nodded. "When I came round at the pool, I fought four of them off before one of them shoved a pistol into my shoulder." He looked back down at his paper as he raised it again. "Tuesday, two o'clock."

Sherlock nodded once as he tuned one of the strings. "That should work just fine." He looked up at John with an intrigued look. " _Four_ of them?"

"Soldier, aided by adrenaline," John answered. "Have a new case?"

"Nothing, as of yet," Sherlock replied, setting the violin and bow on the table. "Did that slow you down?" He grabbed his tea from the table and sat down across from John in his own armchair.

"Not really," said John. "They had to clock me in the head."

Sherlock smirked. "And Moriarty had the nerve to call you a puppet."

John frowned. "He didn't call me a puppet; he called me a pet."

Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

The corner of John's mouth quirked a little as he thought back to the parroting of Moriarty's words he'd been forced into at the pool, especially that hateful ventriloquist's phrase (he'd had several nightmares in the past few days that starred Moriarty's maniacal voice on a loop in his ear: "Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer!").

"Yes, well…" said John, looking away from him.

There was silence for a while, and John's eyes went back to his paper.

"You're not, you know."

John looked up to see Sherlock staring at the arm of his chair, picking absently at it.

"You're not anyone's puppet or pet," Sherlock continued, still staring at the chair. "Not Moriarty's, and least of all, not mine."

"I know that," John told him, confused as to why Sherlock thought that John would think that Moriarty's taunts were worth listening to.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to his, his hand freezing in its fiddling. "But I need you to know that _I_ know that."

John stared back at him, finally understanding what Sherlock's worry was. He gave his friend a sincere look. "I know."

Sherlock nodded after a moment. "Good. Well, that's…good." He inhaled sharply and got to his feet, heading towards the kitchen. "Well, if Lestrade's going to take his bloody time, we might as well make the most of it."

John frowned as he set his paper aside and turned halfway towards the kitchen. "Lestrade?"

"Yes, he's been sitting in the street for three and a half minutes, trying to decide whether to come up or not," Sherlock told him, bustling about at his microscope.

"He has?" asked John, turning his head towards the window and then standing to head over to it. He looked down to the street outside of their flat, seeing the police car parked there. "How did you know?"

"Elementary, really," Sherlock muttered, switching slides. "Do tell him to come on up before Christmas arrives."

Rolling his eyes, John pulled out his phone, typing out a text and sending it.

 _ **Sherlock says to get your arse up here. I'm paraphrasing.**_

John looked back out the window, watching as, a moment later, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stepped out of the car, shaking his head as he pocketed his phone. John huffed out an amused breath, turning to sit at the table next to him. He gently nudged the violin and bow aside to make room for him to take notes. After the sound of the downstairs door opening and closing and then footsteps up the stairs, Greg stepped into the sitting room, spotting Sherlock at the kitchen table.

"You know, sometimes, it's spooky when you do that," Greg told the detective.

"Quit stalling and tell us what it is you're so reluctant to share," Sherlock snapped.

Greg nodded as he shrugged, glancing at John and back at Sherlock, still hesitating.

Sherlock huffed out an impatient sigh, standing and striding past the inspector as he spoke. "For God's sake, Lestrade, quit sparing our 'delicate sensibilities' and just tell us!" He gracefully plopped down into his armchair, his elbows on the arms and his fingers steepled in front of his mouth.

"Very well," said Greg. "There's been a bomb threat."

As Sherlock froze in his pose and John's gun hand unconsciously clenched in his lap, it became clear as to why Greg was hesitating. It was only days since the whole business with Moriarty and the five pips. The memories from the pool with the bomb strapped to his chest were still raw to John, and though the man would never even hint at it, John knew Sherlock was still reeling over the old woman, whom Moriarty's third bomb had killed along with twelve others.

"What about it?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"We received a note, stating that a bomb was somewhere in the city, waiting to detonate this afternoon," Greg told them. "Didn't say when or where."

"And I presume you have gathered no other clues from this note," said Sherlock.

"No, but—" began Greg.

Sherlock stood abruptly, tearing off his dressing gown and tossing it on his armchair as he headed for the flat's door behind Greg. "Not to worry, Lestrade. I'll have the location in ten minutes, at the most."

"Good, Anderson'll be waiting for you," said Greg.

Sherlock spun towards him with one arm in his suit jacket. "Why's Anderson on this? He's a forensic pa—" He broke off, eyes widening a moment, before narrowing in excitement. "Where?"

"Outside our front door," Greg answered.

"When?" Sherlock asked, quickly getting the rest of his jacket on and hastily buttoning it.

"Sometime between 6:00 and 6:30," Greg answered.

"Anything on security cameras?" Sherlock yanked his Belstaff coat from the door and began pulling it on.

"They were disabled," said Greg.

Sherlock smiled, chuckling a little. "Ooh, this is getting rather fun—"

"Wait, wait, what?" asked John. "What's going on?"

"A body was dumped outside of Scotland Yard with the note about the bomb strapped to it," Sherlock answered, flipping his collar up. "Do keep up, John." He grabbed his scarf and rushed to the stairs, practically running down them.

"A body?" exclaimed John, grabbing his own coat and his gun as he followed Greg down the stairs.

They all hurried out onto the street, climbing into Greg's car. As Greg pulled away from the curb, Sherlock launched into his pre-crime scene deductions.

"The body is a clue."

"How do you figure?" asked Greg from the front seat.

"Why would you leave a body just to get a bomb threat to the police?" Sherlock bit out like it was obvious. "A simple phone call would have sufficed."

"So…" said Greg, prompting him for more.

" _So,_ the body was left for the precise purpose of having to do with the note," Sherlock told them. "Do you have an identity?"

"Not yet," said Greg.

"Whoever it is, their identity will lead us to the bomb?" asked John.

"Most likely, which means they **want** us to find the bomb," said Sherlock.

John's eyes widened in realization. "A trap."

Sherlock nodded. "A trap."

"And we're just going to waltz right in there?" asked John.

"May not have a choice if we want to stop this bomb," Sherlock replied.

"Perfect," muttered John, looking out the window.

"No one is going anywhere without a police escort," Greg told them.

Even John looked up at Greg in the rearview mirror with a surprised look.

"I'm sorry, Inspector, you must have me confused with one of your brainless colleagues," Sherlock threw at him, his eyes narrowed.

"I mean it, Sherlock," Greg shot right back, his eyes drilling momentarily into Sherlock's in the rearview mirror. "You are not getting blown up because you were too stubborn to wait for back-up."

Sherlock stared at him before rolling his eyes in assent and staring out the window.

John let the silence continue before asking the question that was surely on all of their minds. "You think this is Moriarty again?"

"Doubtful," Sherlock replied. "He wouldn't pull the same trick twice, especially this soon."

"So, just some random psychopath," muttered John. "Great."

"Not to worry," Sherlock told him. "You'll make your therapy appointment. This shouldn't take more than a few hours."

"Gee, thanks," muttered John, not sure Sherlock was really seeing what he was worried about.

Ten minutes later, they were pulling up outside of Scotland Yard, where the entire pavement out front was roped off. Reporters and cameras swarmed the edge of the crime scene, exhilarated at the prospect of a murder happening at the Yard's front door. Cameras swung in their direction as the car pulled up, flashing at the new arrival. Swinging the car's back door open, Sherlock jumped out amid shouts when they recognized him.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Mr. Holmes, is this—"

"—are you looking into—"

"—us a statement—"

John scooted across the seat after Sherlock, pushing through the crowd behind him as they reached the police tape and ducked under it. Two police officers swept in behind them, preventing anyone from crossing into the crime scene after them. Greg led them over towards where they had set up a temporary divider to shield the body from the crowd. As Greg stepped aside, Sherlock rounded the edge of the screen and froze, his eyes staring down at the ground in shock.

"Sherlock?" asked John, moving to step up next to him. "What is it—oh."

He had gotten around Sherlock and could now see the body. What was most shocking was the fact that he recognized the woman.

"What is it?" asked Greg, looking between them and the body.

"We know who that is," muttered John absently.

"You do?" asked Greg, raising his brows as he turned more towards them. "A friend?"

John shook his head, still staring at the woman. "That Chinese smuggling ring a few months ago…"

Greg nodded in understanding. "'The Blind Banker.'"

John glanced automatically over at Sherlock at the mention of his blog title, but Sherlock was still too busy staring at the body to even roll his eyes. He looked at Greg, gesturing to the woman. "This is General Shan."

Greg's brows rose, turning his head to look at the woman. "I would've thought she'd be back in China by now."

"She would be," Sherlock suddenly spoke up, coming back to himself. "Based on the failure of her final smuggling operation, her boss would have gotten rid of her."

"What, and he couldn't find her until now?" asked John.

"Oh, no, he has eyes on his operatives at all times," Sherlock told them. "He would have killed her before she left London." He stepped forward towards the body.

"But that was six months ago," said John.

"Yes," said Sherlock, as though it was perfectly obvious, as he knelt down beside the body.

"Sherlock, she hasn't decayed at all," John told him, stepping forward a little. "Surely by now—"

"They've obviously taken extreme measures to preserve her body," Sherlock told them before raising his head from his studying. "Which means they've been planning this…" He stood abruptly and turned around. "Come on, we've not a moment to lose." He stomped past John towards the edge of the screen.

"Wait, wait, where are you going?" asked John, turning toward him.

Sherlock kept going, not looking back. "To take care of the bomb."

"You know where it is?" asked Greg, stepping in front of him.

"Of course," said Sherlock, trying to step around him.

"How?" asked John.

Sherlock stopped and turned halfway back to him, a frown on his face. "What do you mean, how? The tramway; they gave us everything."

"Tramway?" asked John, his frown deepening.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before gesturing at the body. "They picked General Shan specifically for us; **she** is the clue to the bomb's whereabouts."

John's frown had vanished as his eyes trailed over to the side in realization. "'Dragon den, black tramway…'"

"Exactly," said Sherlock, turning to head off of the crime scene.

"Hold up, Sherlock," said Greg, putting a hand on his chest to stop him. "I'm calling back-up." He pulled out his phone.

"No time, Inspector," Sherlock said briskly.

"You promised," Greg told him, giving him a hard look.

"Technically, I made no such promise," said Sherlock pointedly.

"Sherlock!" said Greg harshly, dialing the number.

"Oh, for God's sake!" burst Sherlock, turning on the spot in an attempt to vent his pent-up energy.

Greg put the phone to his ear. "I need a bomb squad at—" He looked up at Sherlock.

"9 St Pancras Way," Sherlock rattled off.

"9 St Pancras Way," Greg repeated. "We'll meet you there." He hung up.

Sherlock immediately bolted, walking quickly around the screen and towards the crowd. The reporters immediately began flashing their cameras and firing their questions as John and Greg followed.

They got back into Greg's car and sped away to the location.

"That tramway is right under St Pancras Hospital," John muttered.

"Plenty of casualties," Sherlock muttered back.

"Not if you can help it, though, right?" said John, giving him a smirk.

"Right," said Sherlock with a smirk.

Pulling up to the correct address, they hurried out and down into the tunnels towards the tramway. The three of them came to a sudden stop when they heard footsteps around the corner. Greg and John immediately pulled their guns out, inching along the wall towards the corner, at the ready. Sherlock eased up beside John, senses at the ready.

When they came to the corner, Greg paused before stepping out, aiming his gun at the person who had stepped around the other side, gun aimed at him.

Greg relaxed, lowering his gun as John did likewise. "Donovan, what are you doing here?"

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan lowered her own gun as Doctor Phillip Anderson stepped up beside her. "What do you mean? You called me, boss."

Greg frowned. "No, I didn't."

"Then who did?" asked Donovan.

"The bomber, obviously," said Sherlock as he pushed past everyone.

"Oh, yeah?" said Donovan, her entire posture broadcasting disrespect as her gun hung forgotten at her side. "And you would know, wouldn't you, Freak?"

"Donovan," hissed Greg as Sherlock turned the corner.

"Sherlock!" John called, hurrying after him to cover him. "Why would they make sure Donovan and Anderson were here?"

"Don't know, don't care," said Sherlock. "Just get to the bomb."

They stepped through an archway and emerged into the large tunnel where John and Sarah had been taken captive by the Black Lotus. About two hundred feet down the tunnel, a large structure had been built. It was a concrete, rectangular room about twenty feet long and twenty feet wide.

Sherlock exchanged a look with John before stepping towards it. The three Yard officials followed behind them, Donovan and Greg no doubt covering all the dark corners with their guns. Finding no door on their side, Sherlock circled around until they reached the opposite side. A doorway stood in the middle of the wall, the door (a thick, industrial-strength one, almost like a bank vault door) wide open and light pouring out of it.

Sherlock began to take a step towards the beckoning doorway when he felt a hand on his arm. He glanced over to see John shaking his head and then pointing to his ear. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he nodded, indicating that he had already heard the noises coming from inside. People were in this mystery room; at least two of them.

He stepped forward, reaching the door and listening a moment to the voices inside before revealing himself.

"They forced you into the car? Did they hit you?"

Sherlock straightened in interest. _Molly?_

"No, they had a gun, but I'm fine."

Sherlock's eyes widened in shock. _Mrs. Hudson?_ He turned to share the look with John before stepping into the doorway.

Doctor Molly Hooper stood in front of Mrs. Hudson, checking her pulse. They both looked over at him in surprise. Even more odd, a man sat in a chair in the middle of the room, strapped to it with handcuffs on his wrists and ankles and restraints across his chest. Sherlock frowned at the spectacle before Molly stepped forward.

"Sherlock," she said. "What's going on?"

Sherlock frowned at her as he stepped into the room to allow the others into the room behind him. She didn't seem surprised to see him, after all; she had expected him to be here. He flashed back to Donovan supposedly being called by Greg in order to get her here. "I called you, didn't I?"

Molly frowned and then widened her eyes in realization. "Texted. You didn't, did you?"

Sherlock shook his head as Greg and Donovan moved over to the man in the chair.

John stepped over to Mrs. Hudson, stowing his gun in his jacket. "Are you all right?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."

"They took her from Baker Street after the two of you left," Molly explained.

"And what about him?" asked Greg, gesturing to the man in the chair.

"He hasn't said a word," Molly told them.

"I've been waiting for **you** ," said the man, his eyes on Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced down at him. The man was wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt, his face unshaven and his hair uncombed. Clearly, he didn't care about his appearance. That, combined with the traces of whipped cream at the corner of his mouth (last meal) suggested this was their suicide bomber.

"The name's Hawkins," the man told them. "Just for your information."

Sherlock broke the stare and looked around the room, seeing nothing but grey walls. _Where was the bomb?_ He turned back to the man, something about the wall behind him catching his eye.

"Looking for this?" said Hawkins.

A hidden panel slid up in the wall behind him, revealing a keypad that had about twenty different buttons on it, all with a different symbol on it. The symbols, however, made absolutely no sense. Sherlock had never seen these symbols in any language in existence; it was gibberish.

"Go ahead," said Hawkins. "Take a look."

Sherlock stepped around him and over to the panel. No matter how much he looked over that wall, there was absolutely no way to get to whatever was behind that keypad.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" said Hawkins, the smile in his voice. "My boss designed it himself. Completely unbreakable."

Sherlock turned to look down at the back of his head. "Your boss?"

Hawkins turned his head to the side to address him. "Oh, not so fast, Mr. Holmes. Besides, that's really not what you should be focusing on."

"Really?" said Sherlock, stepping to the side of the chair to look him in the eye. "And what should I focus on?"

Hawkins' gaze moved up to Sherlock's face, the smirking grin sending alarm bells blaring through Sherlock's mind palace. "The end."

The whir of machinery powering up sounded through the room as the keypad lit up. The space above it flashed up some numbers as a beep sounded.

 **3:00**

 _Beep!_

 **2:59**

 _BANG!_

The door slammed shut, and they all turned towards it in alarm.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

John rushed forward as Greg joined him, trying to find a way to get it open. Unfortunately, a vault door is not so easily broken open.

"Don't bother!" shouted Hawkins from his chair.

John pushed futilely at the door one more time before looking back at the man.

"It's sealed," continued Hawkins. He smiled wickedly. "Trust me, there's no way out."

John glanced up to share a stunned look with Sherlock before the detective turned on the spot, his eyes scanning the walls and ceiling.

Donovan rushed over to the bomb as it counted down. "There's gotta be something—"

"There's nothing," sneered Hawkins, laughing a little. "Nothing's going to stop this bomb."

"Oh, dear…" said Mrs. Hudson, wringing her hands in distress.

John's gaze fell to the floor, trying to see some way— _any_ way—out of this. _There has to be something. This can't be the end._

"What do we do?" asked Molly, staring at the bomb behind Hawkins.

 _There has to be something…_ John thought, his eyes roaming over the whole room but not really seeing anything. _Surely, someone knows something we can—_ His eyes landed on Sherlock, who was staring down at the floor, his eyes darting back and forth. He pointed suddenly at his friend. "Mind palace!"

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock, looking up at him.

"Use your mind palace!" said John.

"How will that help?" asked Sherlock.

John lowered his hand. "You've salted away every fact under the sun!"

Sherlock's voice rose as he gestured emphatically. "Oh, and you think I've just got 'How to Defuse a Bomb' tucked away in there somewhere?"

"Yes!"

Sherlock paused, his eyes shifting uncertainly. "Maybe." He brought his hands to either side of his head and closed his eyes in concentration.

"Are we really—" Anderson began.

John turned his head towards the forensic specialist. "Shut it!" He looked back at Sherlock as the man's eyes darted back and forth behind his eyelids.

They waited as Sherlock began to get visibly frustrated, his hands starting to flail in front of his face. John closed his eyes, trying not to give in to the despair waiting on the edge of his mind. Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers into his temples, shouting and then dropping his hands. John stared at him, hoping, before Sherlock finally looked up at him in defeat.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed John, turning away. He heard rustling behind him, no doubt Sherlock rushing back to the bomb. _This is it…_

"Give it up!" taunted Hawkins with a laugh.

John turned back towards him. Sherlock was still staring at the bomb.

"There's no blue wire to cut, there's no off switch, there's no special sequence of steps," Hawkins told them. "There's only one way to shut down this bomb, and it's in my head."

Sherlock turned towards him, staring down at him.

"There's no time to try different codes and no time to get me to talk." Hawkins turned his head towards the detective. "Let's face it: there's no way out this time."

John looked past Sherlock at the time on the bomb: 1:52. _Oh, my God, he's right._

Hawkins smirked in victory. "Just lie back and lose."

"Oh, my God…" muttered Molly, staring at the floor in disbelief.

John glanced over at Greg, who shared the look of despair he was sure he was wearing. He then looked over at Mrs. Hudson, who had tears running down her face. He walked over and pulled her into his arms. She grasped onto the front of his coat, sobbing. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock standing at the panel, staring around at them all.

John looked up at Molly, reaching out to grasp her hand. Tears fell down Molly's face as she squeezed his hand tightly. Finally, he looked up at Sherlock, ready to say goodbye to his friend. What he saw gave him pause. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his face the very picture of determined resolve and—was that fear around his eyes?

Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes and reached out, placing his hand over the crook of Hawkins' neck. His fingers were spread from neck to almost the edge of his shoulder. John frowned as Sherlock's fingers squeezed into Hawkins' shoulder. The next second, Hawkins' head dropped, unconscious, to his chest.

John let go of Molly's hand in shock as he leaned back from Mrs. Hudson a little. "Sherlock, what are you…"

Sherlock was striding quickly around the chair, pulling his gloves off as he did. Stuffing the gloves in his pocket hastily, he squatted down in front of Hawkins. By now, everyone was watching him. Sherlock then reached forward, carefully placing the tips of his left hand on the right side of Hawkins' face; his little finger in front of the ear, the ring and middle finger on the temple, the forefinger next to the nose and the thumb on the chin.

Frowning, John stepped forward slowly, wondering just what the bloody hell his flatmate was doing. Stepping up to Sherlock's left, he bent his back a little to see his face. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and he appeared to be concentrating. John looked from Sherlock's face to his hand and back again before looking up at Greg, who stood on Sherlock's other side, to share a confused look with him.

John looked back down at Sherlock, whose brows had furrowed. After a moment, he raised his other hand, putting it on the other side of Hawkins' face exactly the same as the other hand.

"Sherlock…" John said gently, wondering if his friend had finally lost it in his last moments.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him; he only concentrated harder. His fingertips seemed to be digging into Hawkins' face in his desperation to do whatever it was he was doing. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he jumped up, rushing around John and over to the panel, which read as having one minute and ten seconds left. Sherlock began punching random buttons on the keypad, seemingly knowing exactly what he was doing. After about ten or twelve buttons, he finally pressed a bigger button at the bottom. The timer froze at 1:01, and the machine whirred down to silence.

John's jaw dropped as Sherlock remained facing the panel. After what felt like forever, he was finally able to speak again. "How…how did you…"

"I knew it," said Donovan snidely. She looked at Greg. "I've been telling you lot for years he was a psychopath. How else would he know the code?"

"But it—it…" began John, shaking his head. He looked over at Donovan as his brain finally caught up with the situation. "If he was part of this whole thing, why would he do this? To make us think he's psychic? We'd be more likely to believe he's an inside man. He's be outing himself."

"You're not far off, John," said Sherlock suddenly.

John's head spun over to look at him. He couldn't possibly be saying he was working with Hawkins, could he?

Sherlock turned, hesitating before looking John in the eye. "It's called a mind meld."

John frowned, not really understanding. "Mind meld?"

"You've got to be kidding," groaned Donovan. "You **are** trying to make us think you're psychic?"

"This is an all new low, even for you," said Anderson.

"I wouldn't call it psychic, exactly," said Sherlock.

They all stopped to stare at him.

"Wait a minute, you're serious?" asked Greg.

"Deadly," said Sherlock.

"Are you some kind of…wiccan or something?" asked Molly with a frown.

Sherlock shook his head. "Hardly. My people are called Vulcans."

"Vulcan?" asked Donovan. "Is that a cult?"

Sherlock took a hesitant breath. "Just as Earthlings are named for their home planet, so we are named for ours."

Silence met that statement, and John stared at his friend, unsure if he had heard what he had just heard.

"You're saying you're an…alien?" John asked with the hint of a smile, sure that any minute now, Sherlock was going to announce it was all a joke.

"Technically, to me, you're the alien, but yes," Sherlock said with a straight face.

The smile fell from John's face. _My God, he's serious._

"What, like little green men?" Anderson laughed.

Sherlock shook his head. "That's a common human misconception. My people have never come across any race resembling little green men."

"My God, he's finally lost it," muttered Donovan.

"Sherlock," said John as he stepped up in front of his friend, "you do realize what you're saying, right?"

"Yes, John, I do," Sherlock told him. "And I know how it sounds, but I assure you, it's the truth."

"Oh, he's assuring us!" said Donovan condescendingly. "He's _assuring_ us that he's from another planet!"

"Would explain a lot," muttered Greg.

Despite the craziness of the conversation, John couldn't help the smile at that joke. He also noticed the slight smirk on Sherlock's face.

"My contact Mycroft can attest to this information," Sherlock told them.

"Contact?" asked John. "Your brother is your contact?" He stopped himself. "Wait, is he a...a Vulcan, too?"

"He's not actually my brother," said Sherlock. "He's our contact on Earth. The Vulcan Science Academy sent me to observe your planet."

"Are we really listening to this?" demanded Donovan, waving her hands in exasperation.

"It's completely ridiculous!" exclaimed Anderson. "It's just another excuse!"

"This is unbelievable," Donovan shot at the detective. "You really expect us to believe that you weren't involved in this?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched slightly as he huffed out an impatient breath.

"He wasn't involved," Greg told them. "I don't know why he's telling us he's from another planet, but he isn't involved."

"I'm telling you because it's the truth," Sherlock gritted out.

"Oh, please," muttered Anderson. "The truth? I was right all along: psychopath."

Donovan nodded at this.

"Oh, for God's sake," muttered Sherlock.

John startled as Sherlock suddenly swept forward, raising his hand and placing it on Donovan's face in much the same way he had for Hawkins. Donovan had backed up in surprise, but as soon as Sherlock's hand had touched her face, her eyes snapped closed as she inhaled sharply.

"Oi!" Greg exclaimed, starting to step forward to get him off of his sergeant.

John wasn't sure why, but he stepped forward to stop Greg. "No, wait." He couldn't really explain it, but he trusted Sherlock. The man would not be spinning this story if he didn't have a reason.

Donovan, meanwhile, had frozen, her face relaxing as—was that amazement?—filled her face. Sherlock stared down at her, a look of mild concentration on his face. The rest of them stared at the two, wondering what was happening. Was he really psychic? Was he really delving into Donovan's mind as they stood and watched?

Sherlock finally pulled his hand back and turned away, slowly walking past Hawkins. John stared at him for a moment before looking at Donovan. Her eyes had opened, and she was staring down at the floor in shock, her mouth open.

"Oh, my God…" she breathed.

"What happened?" asked Greg. "What was that?"

"I saw…" Donovan let out a shaky breath. "It was…" Her gaze moved up to Sherlock. "It's true…"

John's eyes widened; that had been the **last** thing he ever expected the sergeant to say.

"It's all true…" said Donovan in a quiet voice.

John looked over at Sherlock, who slowly turned to look at them all. It was true? Really? Well, if _Donovan_ agreed with Sherlock, it had to be, right?

"What did you do?" asked Molly.

"I mind melded with her," Sherlock explained. "I showed her my past, my planet."

"You can do that?" asked John.

"It's not like reading a mind, nothing at all," Sherlock explained. "Our minds become one; we share memories, feelings. In some cases, a piece of ourselves even remains behind in the other."

John looked back at Donovan. "So, he's…he's really from this planet Vulcan."

Donovan nodded, staring at Sherlock with what might have been understanding.

"He…" began Anderson, apparently as shocked as the rest of them by Donovan's agreement, "he probably dosed her. She only hallucinated it…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can offer more proof."

"What proof?" asked Greg.

Sherlock reached into his pocket as he spoke. "Vulcans are not red-blooded; our blood is green." He pulled out a pocket knife and held it out to Molly. "Care to do the honors?"

Molly hesitated, fumbling for words a moment before cautiously taking the knife. Sherlock then held open his palm, extending it towards her. The rest of them stepped up closer as Molly ran her fingers over his palm, confirming that it was indeed real skin there. She then carefully pressed the blade to his palm and drew it across it, just the right amount to draw blood but not enough to cause permanent damage. They all peered closely as a dark line welled up behind the knife, spilling out slightly from the wound. Sure enough, it wasn't crimson spilling from his hand; it was a dullish emerald.

John stared in shock. So, that clinched it. It was true. Not that he had doubted Sherlock—he trusted his friend—but when faced with undeniable proof, it just made it all the more real.

"My God…" breathed Greg, looking up at Sherlock in wide-eyed astonishment.

"And I am obligated to tell you that if you breathe a word of this to anyone, remember, Mycroft is practically the British government," Sherlock told them. "He'll have your job, your reputation, your entire life."

"Wow," said John. "That's quite a threat."

"We take first contact very seriously," Sherlock told them. "Any alien species too primitive to understand that they are not alone in the universe cannot be told the truth. It has…" he paused sadly a moment, "not ended well in the past."

"Then why did you tell us?" asked Greg.

Sherlock paused for a moment before replying in a quiet voice. "You were going to die."

John smiled, touched by Sherlock's self-sacrificing attitude. He had been willing to give up this most-guarded secret to save them.

John stepped forward, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "All right, I think we all need time to adjust to this. Sherlock, do you know how to get the door open?"

Sherlock nodded at Hawkins. "I can find out." He stepped over to Hawkins, kneeling in front of him once again. Placing his fingers over the man's face, he closed his eyes as he dove into this "mind meld." After a moment, he opened his eyes and frowned. "That doesn't make sense." He glanced up at the panel behind Hawkins, his eyes frowning to their maximum.

"What is it?" asked John.

Sherlock got to his feet, slowly approaching the wall with the panel on it. "He never meant it to go off…" He stopped in front of the panel, eyes pouring over it.

"Sherlock?" asked John.

Sherlock raised his hand and began punching buttons on it.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, rushing forward.

"What are you doing?" asked Greg, right next to him.

Just as John reached Sherlock and yanked him away, Sherlock had punched the final button, and the machine whirred into action and began counting down again.

John stared at the clock in horror. "What did you just do?"

"There is no bomb," Sherlock told them.

John's head whipped around to look at him. "What?"

"There is no bomb," he repeated. "The timer is for the door."

Greg frowned. "But we got a bomb threat!" He angrily gestured at Hawkins. "He confirmed it!"

Sherlock shook his head. "Merely an extremely gifted actor. He even had _me_ fooled."

"But the threat…" said Donovan, surprisingly looking to Sherlock for the answer. Maybe there was something to that mind meld after all.

"A scheme to get us here," Sherlock explained. "All to see if I could stop the bomb. If not, the door would simply open and let us go."

"Why?" asked John. The whole thing seemed pointless to him.

"To see if I could do it," said Sherlock. "He's watching us."

"He?" asked Molly.

"The boss our dear friend here mentioned," said Sherlock with a gesture at Hawkins.

"Cameras?" asked John.

"Of course."

"So, they know that you can do now."

"Unfortunately."

John could see the worry in his friend's eyes. "Do you know who his boss is?"

Sherlock regretfully shook his head. "They never met in person."

John looked back up at the timer, which was now at 0:15. He sighed out an anxious breath. "I sure hope you're right about this, Sherlock."

"Trust me," Sherlock muttered.

"Always," John muttered back.

"Oh, shut it, you two," grumbled Anderson. "This is not how I want to remember my possible last moments."

They all stared at the clock as it reached ten seconds.

 **0:09**

 **0:08**

 **0:07**

John's fingers began to twitch in anticipation. He trusted Sherlock to the end, but he couldn't stop the nervous fluttering of his heart.

 **0:06**

 **0:05**

 **0:04**

They all seemed to hold their breath, waiting through the last few seconds.

 **0:03**

 **0:02**

 **0:01**

 **0:00**

A metallic clang sounded loudly behind them—which, of course, made them all jump, all except Sherlock—and they turned to see the vault door swing open slightly. A collective breath of relief swept through the room.

John looked back at Sherlock, an astonished smile on his face. "That was…amazing…"

Sherlock smiled before looking over at Mrs. Hudson. "You've been unusually quiet during this whole thing."

Mrs. Hudson nodded sagely. "I sort of already knew."

"You what?" exclaimed Sherlock with furrowed brows as everyone stared at her.

"Not the details, but…" Mrs. Hudson paused. "I overheard you and Mycroft one day. Something about contacting home and strange human customs…I pieced it together."

Sherlock stared at her in shock.

"I'm not as stupid as I look, you know," Mrs. Hudson told him.

Sherlock shook his head, smiling at her. He then looked over at everyone else. "Time we all went home, yes?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

 **Yes, it's shorter, but hey, I got it to you quick.**

John followed Sherlock into the flat, heading straight for his armchair. The entire day seemed to be a blur: the case, General Shan, the tunnel, the room, the bomb, the mind meld, Sherlock's alien heritage…He couldn't believe it; that Sherlock had managed to keep something like this a secret? Well, that wasn't entirely surprising. If _John_ had managed to keep this from _Sherlock_ , now **that** would be impressive.

Even though it didn't really change anything—Sherlock was still Sherlock—John had the feeling that everything would change. His best friend was an _alien_ , for God's sake. How do you just take that in stride? How was it even possible? What was his planet like? Who were his parents? Did he volunteer to come here? What was—

"Do spit it out, John."

John looked up to see Sherlock sitting in his own armchair across from him. "Hmm?"

"You've got questions," Sherlock said. "Let's hear them."

John smirked at his friend's ability to know exactly what he was thinking. Which was now quite literal. With a frown, John opened his mouth to ask.

"No," said Sherlock.

John's jaw snapped closed.

"Based on my deduction that you had questions, you were reminded of my unique interrogation methods, which would lead to a question of whether my detective skills come from them," Sherlock explained. "They do not. I need contact for a mind meld. I hardly ever use it, except in the case of an emergency. My deductive skills come naturally, like they do to most Vulcans. However, I happen to have dedicated my life to the field, so I do know a thing or two more than them." He gave a smug smile.

John nodded, grateful it wasn't all a sham. "So…Donovan."

Sherlock frowned. "Donovan?"

"You mind melded with her," said John.

"I needed someone unlikely to side with me to corroborate my story," Sherlock explained. "She was one of the two people who hate me most in all of London."

"And Anderson?" asked John.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if offended by the suggestion. "I wouldn't trust Anderson with my mind if I were on fire on a sinking ship surrounded by an army of Poison Dart Frogs." (I checked Google. A group of frogs is actually called an army!)

John laughed out loud at that, and Sherlock gave a small smile. He looked back up at Sherlock. "You do have a point." His mind drifted to the expression on Donovan's face when the mind meld had happened. What that must have been like…

"Don't tell me you're upset that I picked Donovan over you," said Sherlock.

"No, no," said John, waving a hand to assure him. "I know why you picked her. She was the perfect choice."

Sherlock paused and then smirked slightly. "You're curious, aren't you?"

John raised his brows and spread his hands in front of him. "I just found out my best friend's an alien. Of course I'm curious." He lowered his hands, frowning as Sherlock stared at him. "What?"

"I'm…your best friend?" asked Sherlock, a frown marring his features.

John smiled. "Yeah, I guess you are."

Sherlock nodded, taking that in. "Am I still?" His eyes strayed down to the floor.

John stared at him a moment before shifting in his seat a little. "Sherlock." He waited for the detective to look up at him. "You **are** my best friend." He made sure to emphasize the present tense.

A smile threatened to break out on Sherlock's face, but he reined it in and scooted forward in his chair. "You sure?"

John glanced down at Sherlock's hand, open and raised slightly. "I'm sure." He moved forward in his seat and braced his arms on his knees.

Sherlock looked him in the eye. "Relax."

John nodded once as Sherlock reached forward and gently placed his fingers against John's face.

Sherlock looked at him again. "Take a deep breath."

John complied just as Sherlock closed his eyes. The next second, the room cut out into darkness, even though John could tell his eyes were still open. As stars exploded in front of his eyes, he closed them to prevent himself from getting disoriented.

Stars seemed to fly past him, as though he were in a spaceship, speeding through space. Nebulas and asteroids and comets appeared and disappeared before a reddish planet grew in front of him.

" _This is Vulcan,"_ Sherlock's voice echoed in his head. _"My home world."_

The planet loomed ever closer until John suddenly found himself standing on the surface. It appeared to be some sort of desert-like world, all red jagged rock and open blue sky. Two people stood in front of him.

" _These are my parents: Thomas Matheson and Ainok."_

The man had blonde curly hair roughly the same length as Sherlock's and bright, pale blue eyes. He was dressed in a white robe with a dark brown gown over it, presumably some sort of Vulcan clothing. The woman, on the other hand, had long black hair and brown eyes, also wearing the Vulcan robes. Even more strangely, her ears were pointed, like an elf in one of those Tolkein stories. Her eyebrows were also different; they started in the usual place above her eyes just above her nose, but they then slanted upwards in a straight line, as though to emphasize the pointed ears.

" _My father is human, but my mother is Vulcan. For this reason, my physical appearance is human."_

John then saw many other Vulcans, all with the pointed ears, the slanted brows and the black hair.

" _For this reason, I was chosen."_

John was suddenly standing in front of a panel of Vulcans, a flag hanging on the wall behind them.

" _They needed to know how advanced Earth had become to determine if first contact was appropriate at this stage. I was the only one capable of blending in."_

The Vulcans stared down at him, looking ominous and imposing.

" _My father and I have always been looked down upon because of our humanity. It was my chance to redeem myself."_

John was walking up a platform onto a spaceship.

" _I contacted Mycroft and asked him to give me the cover of his brother."_

John sat at what must have been the pilot seat of the ship, a screen in front of him displaying a younger Mycroft's face.

" _After a couple years of observation, I decided to do something with my time. That's when I met Lestrade."_

The ship had landed, a residence had been found, and encounters with people had happened. John was walking past several police cars, whose lights were flashing, when he spotted the crime scene. His eyes swept over it, figuring out the whole thing in a few seconds. He began stepping towards the scene, where Greg stood coordinating everything.

" _I have spent the last eight of my twenty years consulting for Scotland Yar—"_

"Wait, what?" asked John, opening his eyes and yanking his head back from Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock startled slightly, opening his eyes and frowning at him. "What?"

"Twenty years?" asked John. "What does that mean?"

Sherlock lowered his hand, the frown vanishing. "That I am to return home after my twenty years of observation are up."

John's brows rose. "So, you only have twelve years left here?"

"Ten," answered Sherlock curtly. "I was on Earth two years before I became a detective."

John's eyes widened. "Ten years. And then you just…what, leave?"

"Yes," said Sherlock.

John frowned at him. "How can you say that as if it were nothing? Were you ever going to say anything, or were you just going to up and leave us all behind one day?"

Sherlock nodded as he finally understood. "Another aspect of my Vulcan heritage: we have no emotions."

John frowned as he calmed down. "No emotions?"

"We evolved over time to conquer them," Sherlock explained. "They are virtually nonexistent on my planet."

John's frown deepened in confusion. "But I've seen you excited when you got a new case, bored when you don't have one, frustrated at Anderson—"

"I am half-human, John. I have emotions, but I keep them very under wraps. They rarely come out."

John nodded, smirking. "Not a sociopath."

Sherlock nodded. "A Vulcan."

"So, you don't feel at all upset about having to leave Earth?" asked John.

Sherlock was silent for a while before he spoke in a quiet voice. "Why do you think I never let anyone in?"

"You let me in," John pointed out.

Sherlock looked up at him sadly. "Yes, I did."

John stared back for a moment before looking away. "So, all Vulcans look like that?"

Sherlock brightened at the subject change. "All but me and Father. Usually, Vulcan genes are dominant, but in this case, I got his human genes."

"And what was that thing you did to knock Hawkins unconscious?"

"A nerve pinch. Although, outsiders have fondly come to call it the Vulcan Death Grip."

"Death grip," laughed John. "How colorful."

"Yes, my father found it especially humorous."

"How did your parents handle all of this?"

"You forget, John; Vulcans have no emotions."

"What about your father? Do you have any siblings?"

"I'm an only child. My father stayed behind on Vulcan, wishing me luck before I left. He may be human, but he is a man."

John chuckled. "True." He paused a moment before asking the question they were both thinking of. "Any clue who was behind this?"

Sherlock gave a small shake of the head. "None." He grimaced in frustration as he flung his hand out. " _Something_ made him set up this elaborate test. And this is no ordinary criminal; he has access to a network of conspirators."

"And he ran the Black Lotus," John reminded him. "That's how long he's been planning this, right?"

Sherlock had already begun to shake his head, so John forged on.

"Did you do anything strange during that case?"

Sherlock was still shaking his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Besides, if it was that case that tipped him off, this would have happened months ago. No, it had to be more recent, but I haven't done anything in _any_ of my cases." He took in a sharp breath as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers propped together in front of himself. "I suspect this man is familiar with my people. Meeting me face-to-face, he saw something in my personality, my behavior, that reminded him of a Vulcan."

John frowned, his gaze wavering. "Well, what criminal mastermind have you ever met in…person…" His eyes widened as he stumbled upon the answer. He looked up at Sherlock, who shared his wide-eyed shock as they both spoke.

"Moriarty."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

 **My apologies to any die-hard Star Trek fans out there for any mistakes you spot. I've seen a few original series episodes and all of The Next Generation and all the movies, and I tried to research the little things, but some things will slip through.**

 **Also, I found out that Khan and his crew tried to take over the world in the mid 1990s. That does not work out with my timeline at all, so Khan and his crew didn't come till just before the supposed World War III that devastated the world (around 2060).**

Sherlock gritted his teeth as his fingers flew over his phone. "How did I not see it? It was right in front of my face!" He punched an entry into the mobile. "The whole thing with the pips was meant to confirm his suspicions and meet with me, and the bomb proved his theory." He remembered back to the encounter at the pool.

 _Moriarty ran his eyes briefly down Sherlock's body and then met his eyes again, his voice becoming vicious. "I'll burn the_ heart _out of you." His face snarled on the word "heart."_

" _I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," said Sherlock softly._

 _Moriarty turned his head slightly as a smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "But we both know that's not quite true."_

"The look on his face," grumbled Sherlock. "So obvious!"

"Quit beating yourself up," John told him in the seat next to him. "How could you know that he had known about Vulcans?"

"I **should** have known!" Sherlock bit off. "I'm slipping."

John shook his head as he looked out the cab window. "You're being too hard on yourself."

Sherlock paused and sighed, stuffing his phone away. "Perhaps you're right."

John sighed slightly in relief. "Good."

"Mycroft's the one who dropped the ball in researching Moriarty's background," said Sherlock.

John closed his eyes. "Of course he did."

The cab pulled to a stop in front of an elegant white building. As John got out and headed for the front door, he glimpsed the sign next to it: The Diogenes Club.

 _So this is where Mycroft hides out,_ John thought.

Sherlock led the way through the front door and into a lobby. As soon as the door was closed, it seemed as though the sound was sucked out of the room. John frowned and brought his hand up to his ear, pausing as the sound of his coat brushing against itself sounded unnaturally loudly through the room. So, his ears hadn't broken; it was the building. It was quieter than a library in there.

Sherlock strolled straight through the main hallway, and John had to jog a bit to catch up. A few men in suits nodded at the detective as they passed, but otherwise, no one said a word.

John increased his pace slightly to get closer to the man, whispering as quietly as he could. "Sherlock—"

Several things happened at once. The few people that were in the hallway looked sharply up at them, Sherlock came to a sudden stop, and then he turned and slapped his hand against John's mouth.

John's eyes widened in surprise before he pushed Sherlock's arm away. "Oi! Sher—"

Again, Sherlock covered John's mouth, more forcefully this time, and raised a finger to his lips. He then turned and began walking again. John stood in stunned—affronted—silence for a moment, glancing self-consciously at the gentlemen staring in dislike at him. Nodding sheepishly, he wisely kept silent as he jogged to catch up to his friend.

They rounded the corner and approached a set of double doors, which Sherlock opened and stepped aside to let John in. As John entered the room, he spotted Mycroft Holmes sitting at his desk, his eyes not rising from the papers he was poring over. Sherlock closed the door behind them.

"I see the secret's out, Sherlock," stated Mycroft in a bored tone.

Sherlock had strode right up to the other side of the desk, his tone angry. "You better pray your researchers are incompetent, because if you withheld this from me, I **will** use my mind meld to wipe out very significant memories of yours."

"Oh, can we talk now?" said John sarcastically.

"Only in the private offices," Mycroft told him, looking up at the doctor.

John frowned in confusion. "Why?"

"Tradition, John," said Mycroft, leaning back in his seat and adjusting his vest. "Our traditions define us." He laced his fingers together and rested them on his legs.

"So, total silence is traditional, is it?" asked John with a glance at Sherlock, who was gritting his teeth in impatience. "You can't even say, 'Pass the sugar.'"

"Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley," said Mycroft. "It's for the best, believe me." He smiled up at John, but then his face became more grim. "They don't want a repeat of 1972. But we can talk in here." He then moved his gaze to Sherlock. "Withheld what?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock gritted out. "He knew about Vulcans."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Impossible." His voice was barely above a whisper. "We have tabs on every one of the people who know about you, and not one of them is Jim Moriarty."

"And yet," growled Sherlock.

"There was no indication that he had ever come into contact with any race other than his own," Mycroft told them. "Nothing to suggest he would have any knowledge of any of this."

"Well, clearly, your people were wrong," Sherlock gritted out, pushing away from the desk and pacing the length of the room.

"Or you are," said Mycroft with a dark look at Sherlock.

Sherlock froze in his steps, his head slowly turning towards the government official. "Take that back."

"I'm serious, Sherlock," said Mycroft, his voice rising slightly. "Are you certain this was Moriarty?"

"Positive," Sherlock shot back at him.

Mycroft stared at him a moment before speaking. "Very well." He sat forward in his seat. "My people will be on it immediately." He pulled his mobile from the top of his desk.

"And are these the same people that failed to find his knowledge of Vulcan?" demanded Sherlock, eyes narrowed.

Mycroft gave him a hard, steely gaze. "I have every confidence in my people. We were simply looking in the wrong place."

Sherlock stared at him a moment before turning and storming out of the office. John turned to follow him.

"John."

John turned back at Mycroft's voice. The man had never addressed him by his first name, at least not quite like that.

"Take care of him, would you?" asked Mycroft.

John nodded and then followed Sherlock, closing the door behind him. Once they were outside the building and Sherlock had hailed a cab, John turned to his friend.

"So, what do we do now?" he asked.

Sherlock stared out at the approaching cab long enough that John feared he had not heard him. "No idea."

John looked back at him with brows raised. "No idea?"

"Nothing more we can do until Moriarty makes his first move," said Sherlock. "Might as well enjoy the down time."

The cab pulled up to the curb, and Sherlock flung the door open, climbing inside with John right behind.

* * *

It had been three days since their meeting with Mycroft, and they hadn't heard a word back from him. Sherlock had started driving John up the wall with a lack of cases, so he kicked his flatmate out with a warning to not come back unless he had either a case or an experiment to work on. Which is what led Sherlock here.

The detective stood outside of the lab of St. Bart's Hospital, clenching his fists as he tried to talk himself into going inside.

 _Why is this so difficult?_ Sherlock wondered. _It's just Molly. John handled the whole thing fine; why wouldn't she?_

He glanced up to see Molly step out of her office through the window in the door, heading over to one of the tables.

Sherlock let out a sigh as he stepped forward. _Now or never._ He pushed open the door and strolled through, causing Molly to look up at him.

"Sherlock," said Molly, lowering her clipboard slightly as she smiled. "How are you?"

Sherlock strode towards her, stopping four feet short of her. "John kicked me out. I—"

"He did what?!" exclaimed Molly.

Sherlock blinked, his jaw frozen open in mid-speech at her reaction.

Molly dropped her clipboard to the table. "So, now that he knows you're different, he just writes you off as a friend?!"

Sherlock's mouth closed as he frowned, confused at the conversation and Molly's behavior. He had never seen her like this.

"I can't believe that he would do that to you!" exclaimed Molly, beginning to get visibly flustered. "Where are you supposed to live now?! It's not your fault you were born on another planet!"

Sherlock's brows relaxed to normal as it suddenly clicked. Molly thought he had meant John had kicked him out of the flat _forever_.

"How could he just kick you out—"

"For the day," Sherlock interrupted her.

Molly stopped and stared at him.

"I was bored, so John told me to get out and find something to do," Sherlock explained. "I think he saw how close I was to tracking down his gun."

Molly blushed a little at her error. "Oh…" Her eyes fell to the floor, but rose quickly to meet his again. "So, you two are all right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Fine."

"Good," said Molly. "Have you seen any of the others?"

"Besides Mrs. Hudson, no," Sherlock answered. "I haven't been called for a case."

"You haven't?" asked Molly, a frown on her face.

"Not to worry," Sherlock assured her. "They've gone weeks without consulting me before."

"Oh, of course," said Molly. She looked back at her clipboard. "So, you're looking for something to occupy yourself?" She looked back at him.

"If you have anything," said Sherlock. He waited for Molly's answer, anxious to what it would be. _This is it. Has she decided to accept me?_

Molly glanced around the lab, thinking. "Erm…"

Sherlock tensed, bracing for the inevitable.

"Well, I could use some help cataloguing these samples," Molly told him as she looked back at him, pointing at a few trays of test tubes on the end of the table.

Sherlock let out a breath of relief as he smiled. "That should suffice." He stepped over to a nearby table to set his coat and scarf down before moving over towards Molly.

The two worked in companionable silence for some time before Molly spoke up.

"It's part of being Vulcan, isn't it?" she began.

Sherlock looked up from the Petri dish he was working on.

"The way you are," clarified Molly. "You're not really a sociopath, are you?"

Sherlock smirked a bit at her deductive reasoning as he put the pipette down onto the tray in front of him. "Good eye." He turned on his seat to face her. "It's part of our race. Emotions once ran so deeply in our people that it almost caused our extinction. Over time, we trained ourselves to cast them off."

"But that's not you." Molly had turned towards him on her own stool. "You have emotion. Well, some of it."

Sherlock nodded. "I am half human. While I do not possess emotions in general, I do have more than my fellow Vulcans."

Molly nodded, looking down at her hands. "So, it wasn't me."

Sherlock frowned at her statement.

"It really was you," said Molly quietly. She finally looked up at him. "You never responded to my attempts at flirting because you didn't know what they were."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly as his jaw opened a little. "You…you were…"

"Yeah…" Molly nodded shyly.

Sherlock looked away, uncomfortable. "I, erm…" He took a breath and looked back at Molly. "Molly, I am sorry. I am literally incapable of returning any sort of affection. What little emotions I do have are few and far between, and are usually negative: frustration, annoyance, conceit, pride, boredom…manic excitability."

Molly let out a laugh at that, and Sherlock smiled.

"There are times I wished it were different," Sherlock confided in her, to which Molly looked up with slightly wide eyes. "Unlike I lead people to believe, I don't view **all** emotions as tedious." His gaze grew distant suddenly. "To see friends laughing together over a pint and not be able to know what that feels like…"

Molly's heart went out to him, her brows drawing together in sympathy.

Sherlock brought himself out of his musings as he gave a small smile. "Unfortunately, it's…not just possible."

Molly nodded, giving him a small smile. Deliberating on it a moment, she then reached up and placed a hand on the side of his face. Sherlock froze as he stared down at her, surprised by the brave, unexpected move on her part.

"I understand," Molly told him. "And I'm sorry that you'll never get to experience something like that."

Sherlock smiled as he grasped the hand on his face, bringing it down in between them as he held it. "Thank you, Molly Hooper." He leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek.

Molly smiled at him. "So, are those samples labeled?"

Sherlock released her hand and stepped back to the table. "They are." He lifted the tray and turned towards her.

"First fridge, second shelf," Molly told him, gesturing in that direction as she sat back at her station.

The two of them settled into a comfortable pace, more comfortable than they had been with each other in years.

* * *

"Seriously, how long could it possibly take to get information on Moriarty?" Sherlock grumbled from his seat in Baker Street.

"It's Moriarty," John pointed out from his own seat.

"It's Mycroft," Sherlock bit back, actually crossing his arms in a pout.

John chuckled at the sight of his childish flatmate, crossing his own arms. "Careful, Sherlock; your human is showing." He sent a smirk his way.

Sherlock almost growled at the smirk. "Oh shut it." He flung himself from his chair and marched to his violin, picking it up.

John laughed a little as he watched. "Still no cases?"

"Not a blip," Sherlock muttered, plucking at the strings to tune them. "Anything on the blog?"

"Besides random comments about previous cases or requests for dinner…" John waited for it.

"Oh, God…" Sherlock quietly groaned, so obviously rolling his eyes at the window.

"Nothing," John finished, enjoying Sherlock's misery maybe a bit too much.

Sherlock's arms dropped to his sides, the violin knocking against his leg. He let out a long breath. "I need a case."

"Couldn't agree more," said John, pulling his laptop off the side table and opening it.

Before he could get a chance to do anything on it, the flat's door opened, and Mycroft stood in the doorway, a file in his hand.

"It's about time," Sherlock grumbled, turning to drop the violin in his chair. "What have you found out?" He held his hand out for the file.

"Plenty," said Mycroft, pulling the folder closer to himself and staring Sherlock down.

Sherlock gave him a hard look, his hand still held out, until Mycroft finally set it in his hand.

Sherlock opened the file and began sifting through endless, dull reports. "So, which species is he? Romulan? Betazoid?"

For that was the only possibility: that he wasn't from Earth. That's the only way that he could have known about Vulcan. And of the alien species, Romulan and Betazoid were the two most likely. Romulans did come from Vulcan ancestry, and a Betazoid would have been able to sense the lack of emotions and drawn a conclusion that way. He most certainly was not—

"Human," said Mycroft.

Sherlock's hands froze in their flipping as he looked up at his faux-brother in shock.

"Jim Moriarty is the closest thing to a human clone that Dr. Stapleton of Baskerville Military Base was able to get," Mycroft told them.

"Clone?" asked John in shock.

"Almost a clone," Mycroft corrected. "He was genetically engineered and grown in a lab, but not from anyone's specific DNA."

"Genetically engineered?" asked Sherlock, flipping over to what appeared to be confidential military files. Genetic analyses, x-rays, blood tests, performances tests, psychological profiles— _Psychological profiles?_

"Designed to be a stronger, smarter, healthier and all around better human being," said Mycroft. **(Yes, Moriarty is the prototype for Khan and his crew.)**

"It didn't work out, though, did it?" muttered Sherlock with a nod at the profile he had just skimmed.

"No, it didn't," Mycroft agreed.

"Wait, what?" asked John, standing and walking over to them. "What is that?"

"Moriarty's psychological profile," explained Sherlock, handing the papers over to John. "Apparently, he began exhibiting unusually erratic behavior. He was examined by several psychologists and psychiatrists and was deemed a risk to society."

"And no wonder," said John, glancing over the profile. "Bipolar disorder, antisocial personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, psychopathy, sadistic personality disorder. My God, he'd keep Sigmund Freud in business for years." He looked up at them. "So, what happened?"

"A mistake in the seventh and twenty-first chromosomes," said Mycroft. "Needless to say, she won't be making it again."

"Again?" exclaimed John.

"She is in the process of creating a new batch," Mycroft told them. "She plans to test it with a single product before commencing work on the whole lot of them."

" _Lot_ of them?" exclaimed John, his brows raised. "What is she thinking?"

"The program was designed to create a race of humans free of human mental and physical limitations," explained Mycroft. "Once she has the mental part taken care of, it should be no problem."

John's brows rose further. "No problem? So, she can unleash an army of Moriartys on the world? If he was so unfit for society, what is he doing here?"

"It says here that they detained him, but you know Moriarty," grumbled Sherlock, closing the file and tossing it onto the coffee table.

"He escaped," said John, nodding as he put it together. "That doesn't explain how he knew about Sherlock, though."

"No, it doesn't," said Sherlock, placing with his hands placed together in front of his mouth.

"We've found a surveillance device on our transmitters," Mycroft told them. "All of the communications between my office and Vulcan have been monitored for months."

"Ah, so it's your fault," muttered Sherlock darkly, still pacing.

"We have the best security measures in place—" began Mycroft.

Sherlock came to a stop, glaring at Mycroft. "Which Moriarty obviously found a way around!"

Mycroft stared at him a moment before turning towards the door. "Contact me when Moriarty makes an appearance. Oh…" he stopped and turned back, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, "a message from your parents." He held out a small device that looked almost like a Kindle.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he grabbed the tablet and turned it on.

Mycroft nodded at John. "Dr. Watson."

John nodded back as the government official turned and left the flat. He looked over at Sherlock, whose eyes were poring over the communiqué. "How did Moriarty not know who you were if he's been monitoring the Vulcan communications?"

"My name is never mentioned directly," Sherlock explained as he read. "At least not my human name. They refer to me by my Vulcan name, for security reasons."

"Vulcan name?" John asked, intrigued.

"You wouldn't be able to pronounce it," Sherlock replied. "But it translates to Sherlock." His face suddenly scrunched up in despair. "Oh, no…"

"What is it?" asked John, concerned.

"It seems as though my parents have seen fit to grace me with a little brother," Sherlock answered in annoyance.

John laughed as he relaxed a bit.

"Solkar," Sherlock spat out in disgust. "What a horribly common name." He turned the tablet off and tossed it on the sofa. **(And for those of you paying attention, Solkar is Skon's father, who is Sarek's father, who is Spock's father. Yes, Sherlock is Spock's uncle, twice removed.)**

"Oh, yeah, definitely run into too many Solkars these days," John laughed.

"You're one to talk, _John_ ," Sherlock shot back. He strode back over to his chair, picking up his violin. "And now, we wait."

John looked over at him in surprise. "Wait?"

"Yes, John, wait," said Sherlock, picking up his bow. "Moriarty will show his face soon enough." He placed the violin upon his shoulder and the bow to the strings.

As the sound of the violin filled the flat, John sat back down in his armchair, pulling his laptop back out.

* * *

As it turned out, Moriarty didn't show his face for another six months. John and Sherlock had become wildly popular—Sherlock more so than John—thanks to John's blog. The tabloids and newspapers had even come up with nicknames for him: net 'tec, boffin Sherlock Holmes, and—Sherlock's favorite—the hat detective. The last one was thanks to a random hat Sherlock had picked up in a backstage room in a theatre after a case when he had learned reporters were outside. By trying to disguise himself and shirk the attention away from himself, he had done just the opposite. Now, the more enthusiastic Sherlock Holmes fans were all wearing deerstalkers.

Sherlock and Molly had become close friends, almost as close as John was. Ever since they had gotten past the awkward conversation about Molly's love for him and Sherlock's lack of such for her, they could finally move into the at ease close friend zone.

Greg had finally called them for a case a few days after Mycroft's visit with the information about Moriarty, and it appeared the three Yarders were comfortable around Sherlock again. Maybe not completely, but enough to work with. There was even a lack of scathing remarks from Donovan and Anderson…mostly. They still didn't like his higher-than-thou attitude, but you could definitely see the restraint in their faces, especially Donovan, when they began to bite back at him.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was growing restless yet again.

"Dear God, what is he waiting for?" Sherlock growled, pacing the flat like mad.

"This," John pointed out from the kitchen table in the next room. " **This** is exactly what he's waiting for, for you to go out of your bloody mind. Quit playing into his hands, and he'll come round out of boredom."

Sherlock froze and slowly looked over at his friend in surprise. "John, that's brilliant."

John looked up at him. "It is?"

"Of course it is," said Sherlock quickly. "It's obvious that's what he's doing. How did you see it before I did?"

John shrugged with a smug look on his face, going back to his breakfast. "I have my moments."

"Yes, you do," said Sherlock, going over to his microscope across from John.

They sat in silence for an hour before Sherlock's mobile pinged a text alert at him. Sherlock remained at his microscope.

John glanced up at him. "Your phone."

"Leave it," said Sherlock, switching slides. "It can wait."

John went back to his breakfast. Another five minutes went by before the phone pinged again.

John sighed as he got up. "I'll just get it, shall I?" He walked over to the sitting room coffee table and picked up his friend's mobile. Unlocking it and glancing at the screen, his jaw dropped at the words in front of him.

John turned and headed back to the table, holding the phone out to Sherlock.

"Not now," Sherlock told him, now completely into his experiment.

"Sherlock," said John, his voice oddly calm.

"I said not now," Sherlock emphasized in a raised voice.

"He's back," said John, voice still quiet.

Sherlock looked up at his solemn face before glancing down at the phone and grabbing it. He glanced down at the text message with drawn brows.

 **Come and play.**

 **Tower Hill.**

 **Jim Moriarty.**

 **Live long and prosper.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

 **Sorry about the next few chapters. I have to write out the major scenes of "The Reichenbach Fall" to get to the rest of the story. But don't skip ahead! I played with them to make up for the fact that Sherlock is Vulcan and Moriarty is a super-human clone.**

 **And sorry for the wait. But, I got the next, like, six chapters written, so I'll post one every few days or so as I write the new ones. No more weeks-long waits!**

* * *

Sherlock and John sat in the cab, headed towards the Tower of London. John couldn't take the silence anymore and turned towards Sherlock.

"Okay, 'live long and prosper,'" John asked in a quiet voice. "What is that?"

"Traditional Vulcan salute," Sherlock answered in an equally quiet voice.

"Salute?" asked John with raised brows. "You have a salute?"

"We have two salutes," Sherlock explained. "'Live long and prosper' is usually saved for farewells. However, this one is used all the time." He turned towards John and raised his hand, palm facing John. He then spread his fingers out, the thumb held away from the palm, the fore and middle fingers joined and separated from the joined ring and little fingers.

John stared at it for a moment before chuckling. "That looks ridiculous…"

Sherlock turned the palm towards himself. "It does, doesn't it?" He relaxed his hand and set it in his lap. "But it's tradition." His mobile rang, and he pulled it out. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock," said Greg on the other line. "Got a case for you. You better get up to Tower—"

"Already on the way, Inspector," Sherlock told him.

"Really?" asked Greg.

"Moriarty texted me," he explained. "Two minutes." He then hung up.

"He left some kind of message for you at the crime scene, didn't he?" asked John.

Sherlock smirked. "You're on sparkling form today, John."

A bit later, the cab pulled up outside the front gate of the Tower of London. Flinging money up front to the cabbie, Sherlock launched himself out of the cab and towards the officers at the gate, John right behind him. After a few words, the officers waved them in, and they strode for a doorway, where Greg had just poked his head out.

"Sherlock," the inspector greeted. "I don't know what to make of this."

"I think I do," said Sherlock, following the inspector into the building.

They moved through the hallways and corridors before reaching the surveillance room.

"We caught Moriarty inside the case with the Crown Jewels," explained Greg. "After we got him in the car, we checked the video footage and found this." He hit some buttons on the computer keyboard.

Video footage of the Crown Jewels room appeared, and Moriarty stood in front of it, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The footage was from the camera behind Moriarty, and he was placing what looked like gum onto the glass. He then placed something small into the gum. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sight.

"That glass is tougher than anything," said Greg.

"Not tougher than crystallized carbon," said Sherlock as the answer came to him. "He used a diamond."

Moriarty had also written something onto the glass front of the case, but was standing in front of it, so they couldn't read it. The GE and SH on his right, and the K on his left made it obvious, though, that it was written backwards.

Greg hit a couple of buttons to shift to a new recording. Now, the footage was from a camera to the side of the case, pointed at the front of it. They could now see Moriarty's face, and he had just smashed the glass with the fire extinguisher. Greg hit a button, and the footage went into reverse. The glass rose back up into its frame and became whole as Moriarty pulled the extinguisher back. Greg froze the footage, and the message Moriarty had written was now perfectly legible.

 **GET**

 **SHERLO** **CK**

Inside the O, a smiley face had been drawn, but this was no ordinary smiley face. There were two great pointed things on either side of its head, and two lines had been drawn above its eyes, almost as though the artist were trying to convey an angry emotion in the figure.

Greg leaned forward, pointing at the face drawn into the O. "What does that mean?" He moved his finger over the pointy ears and slanted eyebrows.

Sherlock glanced at John before looking back at Greg. " **That** is a Vulcan."

Greg frowned. "I thought you were a Vulcan."

"Half-human," Sherlock explained.

"But he already texted you, so what does **this** message mean?" asked John.

"The game has begun," muttered Sherlock.

* * *

Over the next few days, the trial against Moriarty for breaking into the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison simultaneously was held, and the defense did not look good. The prosecution had Moriarty red-handed. So, why was Sherlock so uneasy? What was this pit in his stomach?

Sherlock himself had been called as a witness against Moriarty, but hadn't been able to keep his trap shut and had found himself jailed for contempt in the first session. John had gone back to every session to keep tabs on the whole thing, while Sherlock sat in the flat, waiting for the verdict. It shouldn't take too long. The longer he sat there, though, the more he was convinced Moriarty would find a way out. Somehow, this trial was part of his scheme.

Sherlock's phone rang, and he picked it up.

"Not guilty," said John on the other line. "They found him not guilty. No defense, and Moriarty's walked free."

Sherlock lowered his phone, somehow knowing that this was what it would come to.

"Sherlock," said John from the phone's speaker. "Are you listening? He's out. You—you know he'll be coming after you. Sher—"

Sherlock disconnected the call and got to his feet, heading for the kitchen. Despite how loathe he was to make his mortal enemy at home, he was still a civilized, English gentleman. So, he would make tea.

Once the tea was sitting on John's end table, Sherlock picked up his violin and bow, beginning Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor. About halfway through, he was able to pick out the sound of the door opening downstairs and then closing. Footsteps sounded on the stairs next, and the trick step on the first set creaked. Sherlock paused in his playing before continuing, waiting for his visitor to get to the flat. Just as he reached the ending, he heard the flat's door swing open behind him. He ended with a flourish and lowered the bow to his side.

"Most people knock," said Sherlock, shrugging. "But then, you're not most people, I suppose." He gestured over his shoulder with his bow towards the table as he lowered the violin. "Kettle's just boiled."

Moriarty walked further into the room and bent to pick up an apple from the bowl on the coffee table. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled." He tossed the apple and caught it, looking around the living room as if searching for a seat. "May I?"

Sherlock turned to face him. "Please." He gestured with the end of his bow towards John's chair.

Moriarty immediately walked past the tray of tea and over to Sherlock's chair and sat in that one instead. Sherlock suppressed a sigh and clenched jaw and went about putting his violin and bow on the table next to John's chair.

Moriarty took out a small penknife and started to cut into the apple while Sherlock poured tea. "You know, when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end—"

"—and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it," said Sherlock.

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody," said Moriarty.

"Neither can you. That's why you've come."

"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock picked up one of the teacups, added a splash of milk and turned to offer the cup to Moriarty.

Moriarty sat up straighter and took the tea. "With me…back on the streets." He gazed up into Sherlock's eyes, smiling. "Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." He grinned. "Besides, you needed a chance to see if Big Brother's rumors were true."

"And are they?" asked Sherlock, turning towards him.

"You tell me," said Moriarty, lowering the cup to give Sherlock a good view.

Sherlock's eyes raked all over Moriarty, searching for a sign that this was indeed a genetically engineered lab rat. Unfortunately, Stapleton had done a perfect job—aside from the mental problems; anyone looking at Moriarty wouldn't know he wasn't a naturally-grown human.

"Perfect, yeah?" said Moriarty with a smug smirk. "But then, you already knew that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned away and added milk to his own cup.

"You need me, or you're nothing," said Moriarty. "Because we're just alike, you and I—except you're boring." He shook his head in disappointment. "You're on the side of the angels, those insufferable do-good-ing elves." He sipped his tea.

Sherlock picked up his own cup and stirred his drink. "Got to the jury, of course."

"I got into the Tower of London. You think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

"Cable network," said Sherlock, the dots connecting themselves.

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalized TV screen and every person has their pressure point. Someone that they want to protect from harm." Moriarty lifted his teacup to his mouth again. "Easy-peasy."

Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and sat down in John's chair. He had his cup lifted close to his mouth. "So, how're you going to do it…" he pointedly blew gently on his tea, "burn me?"

"Oh, that's the problem—the final problem," said Moriarty. "Have you worked out what it is yet?"

Sherlock had taken a sip of his tea and looked across his cup to the other man.

"What's the final problem?" said Moriarty, smiling across his own cup. "I did tell you…but did you listen?" He took another sip of tea and then put the cup down into the saucer. Putting his hand onto his knee, he started idly drumming his fingers.

Sherlock's eyes lowered to watch the movement.

"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know,'" said Moriarty, still drumming his fingers.

Sherlock put his cup into its saucer and shrugged. "I dunno."

"Oh, that's clever. That's very clever, awfully clever." Moriarty chuckled in an upper class tone.

Sherlock smiled humorlessly while putting his cup back onto the tray.

"Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?" said Moriarty.

"Told them what?"

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

"No."

"But you understand."

"Obviously."

"Off you go, then." Moriarty had carved a piece off his apple and put it into his mouth with the flat of his penknife.

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"No, I want you to prove that you know it."

"You didn't take anything because you don't need to."

"Good."

"You'll never need to take anything ever again."

"Very good. Because…"

"Because nothing…nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now—they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy—I own secrecy. Nuclear codes—I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And, honey, you should see me in a crown." Moriarty smiled in delight at Sherlock.

"You were advertising all the way through the trial," said Sherlock. "You were showing the world what you can do."

 _Trying to prove to Stapleton that you weren't as damaged as she believed,_ he thought.

"And you were helping," said Moriarty. "Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities…terrorist cells. They all want me." Moriarty lifted another piece of apple to his mouth with the penknife. "Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

"If you could break any bank, why do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!' Aren't ordinary humans adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."

"Why are you doing all of this?"

Moriarty was still thinking about his comment. "It'd be so funny…"

"You don't want money or power—not really," said Sherlock.

Moriarty dug the point of his penknife into the apple.

"What is it all for?" asked Sherlock.

Moriarty sat forward and spoke softly. "I want to solve the problem—our problem, the final problem." He lowered his head. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination." He paused a moment and then raised his head and whistled a slowly descending note as he gradually looked down towards the floor. Once his gaze reached the floor, he made the sound of something thudding to it. He then raised his head slowly, glowering across at Sherlock.

Sherlock bared his teeth slightly and then stood and buttoned his jacket. "Never liked riddles."

Moriarty stood as well and straightened his jacket, locking his gaze onto Sherlock's eyes. "Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I…owe…you." He continued to gaze at Sherlock for a few seconds, sealing his promise, and then slowly turned and walked away.

Sherlock didn't move as Moriarty left the room, but after a while, he moved towards the apple that Moriarty had left on the arm of his chair with the penknife still stuck in it. He picked it up by the knife handle and looked at it. Moriarty had dug a large circular piece out of the apple, and on the left of the circle, he had carved an "I" shape while on the right of the circle was a "U" shape, forming the letters:

 **I O U**

* * *

 **Thanks for being patient!**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

 **My thanks to Ariane DeVere for her Sherlock transcripts.**

 **Also, I was watching Star Trek VI, and Spock said that an ancestor of his used to say "If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." I stared at the screen, and I'm like, "Sherlock!" It is true! Ha ha!**

 **Just thought I'd share that. Quite funny that Spock just gave me his approval of being Sherlock's great-great nephew.**

* * *

It was about a week after Moriarty's trial ended that John got a call from Mycroft. Well, if you call abduction from the street in a sleek black government car a call. Mycroft had gone on about assassins moving to Baker Street at Moriarty's command, intent on destroying Sherlock. And then, he had asked John—yet again—to watch out for Sherlock.

The next few hours after that had been filled with excitement, especially for Sherlock, as he and John had been called in for an abduction of the American ambassador's two children. Sherlock—with the help of the ambassador's son—had been able to work out from the kidnapper's footprint that they had been taken to a disused sweet factory in Addlestone. The two children were found inside, well into the stages of mercury poisoning, and taken away to the hospital. The girl, Claudette, had eaten less of the contaminated chocolate and had been released into the temporary care of Scotland Yard. Which was where they were now.

Sherlock paced outside an office at the Yard while John sat nearby. The door to the office opened, and Donovan and Greg came out.

"Right, then," said Donovan. "The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn…"

John stood up and walked over to the others.

Greg looked seriously at Sherlock. "Now, remember, she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to…"

"…not be myself," said Sherlock.

"Yeah, might be helpful," said Greg.

Sherlock looked round to John and, doing everything but roll his eyes, reached up and un-popped the collar of his coat, folding it down flat before leading John and the others into the office. The little girl was sitting at a table, looking down into her lap. A female liaison officer was sitting beside her, stroking her arm reassuringly.

"Claudette, I…" began Sherlock.

Claudette lifted her head, took one look at him and began to scream in terror.

"No, no, I know it's been hard for you—" tried Sherlock.

She continued screaming and scrambled to get away while pointing at him.

"Claudette, listen to me—" he tried again.

"Out!" said Greg. "Get out!" Grabbing Sherlock's arm, he bundled him out of the room as the girl continued to scream.

As soon as he was out of the room, Sherlock moved towards an office across the way as John and Greg followed him in, Donovan right behind them. Sherlock moved over to the window, running through the whole encounter in his mind.

 _Why would she scream?_ Sherlock wondered. _What about me could have caused that reaction?_

"Makes no sense," said John.

"The kid's traumatized," said Greg. "Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper."

Sherlock's head lifted slightly at that. _Oh, of course…Brilliant move, Moriarty._

They wrapped up the conversation, with a parting sarcastic comment about the work on the footprint from Donovan, and John and Sherlock left the building. Sherlock got himself a cab alone, needing to think, and he gave the cabbie his address. And he immediately dove into his mind palace.

 _It had to be a look-alike. That's what he's doing, trying to make me look like the kidnapper. But why? I have a public reputation of being a competent detective. There has to be something more…_

As he sat there, the television in the back of the front seat headrest flipped on to a jewelry advertisement.

" _This is a stunning evening wear set from us here at London Taxi Shopping."_

Sherlock almost grumbled at the interruption into his brainstorm. "Can you turn this off, please?"

The drive didn't respond, and the advert continued.

" _As you can see, the set comprises of a beautiful—"_

"Can you turn this off—" began Sherlock, louder and angrily.

The image on the screen began to fritz as if another channel was breaking through. There were momentary glimpses of someone who could only be Moriarty grinning at the screen. Eventually, the advert disappeared, and Moriarty was seen smiling cheerfully. Behind him was a pale blue wall with painted white fluffy clouds floating across it.

Moriarty's voice took on a sing-song quality as if he was talking to children. "Hullo. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot."

Sherlock stared at the screen, his face intense.

"Sir Boast-a-Lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain…" Behind Moriarty, the pale blue sky got darker, and the white clouds became grey and threatening. "And soon they began to wonder…" Rain began to pour from the clouds. "'Are Sir Boast-a-Lot's stories even true?'"

Moriarty sadly shook his head. "Oh, no. So, one of the knights went to King Arthur and said…" his voice lowered to a dramatic whisper, "'I don't believe Sir Boast-a-Lot's stories. He's just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.' And then, even the King began to wonder…" He frowned, raising a finger to his mouth and gazing off to the side with a thoughtful look on his face. He frowned thoughtfully while cartoon lightning bolts shot out of the clouds behind him.

Moriarty shook his head repeatedly. "But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-Lot's problem. No." He looked down for a moment and then raised his eyes to the camera again. "That wasn't the final problem."

Sherlock bared his teeth at the screen as the camera pulled back to show Moriarty sitting with a storybook held in his hands. He looked up at the camera and finished in an even more sing-song voice.

"The end," said Moriarty, a red velvet curtain dropping down behind him.

The screen then fritzed a few times and eventually returned to the advert.

"Stop the cab!" shouted Sherlock. "Stop the cab!"

The taxi began to pull up to the curb.

"What was that?" asked Sherlock, jumping out of the right-hand door and ran forward to the driver's door. "What was that?"

The cabbie, wearing a cloth cap, turned his head towards Sherlock and revealed that he was Moriarty, who adopted a London accent as he spoke. "No charge." He immediately accelerated away.

Sherlock tried to grab hold of the door and pull the cab back. Forced to let go, he chased after the taxi, but it soon sped away. He stopped in the middle of the road, glaring after it.

* * *

It was all playing out like Moriarty had planned. Greg came round the flat to bring Sherlock to the station because of the girl's scream. Moriarty had planted a seed, and it had begun sprouting roots. It could have been settled easily enough with a mind meld, but they had all agreed—Donovan and Anderson included—that it would have been proof they couldn't use without outing Sherlock's secret. Which would he rather be in trouble for: a mischarged kidnapper or an alien?

In the end, the Chief Superintendent had decided for them. Officers had shown up at Baker Street and arrested Sherlock. It would have all been fine; Sherlock would have escaped and gone on with his plan to take Moriarty down. But, of course, John just had to defend his best friend. The chief did not appreciate the act of loyalty: a punch to the face.

Now, the two of them were handcuffed together and running through the streets of London. If not for the cool steel on their wrists, it could have been like every other day of their lives. A brief pause and a look at a newspaper had brought them to the reporter Kitty Reilly's flat.

Sherlock was using a hairpin to pick the lock on his handcuff. "Congratulations. The truth about Sherlock Holmes." He freed his hand and gave the hairpin to John before starting to pace back and forth in front of Kitty. "The scoop that everybody wanted, and you got it. Bravo."

"I gave you your opportunity," said Kitty. "I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so—"

"And then, behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans," said Sherlock. "How _utterly_ convenient. Who is Brook?"

Kitty shook her head, refusing to tell him anymore.

"Oh, come on, Kitty," said Sherlock. "No one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone."

John finally freed his own hand from the cuffs.

"There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés; those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your Dictaphone," said Sherlock. "How do you know that you can trust him? A man turned up with the Holy Grail in his pockets. What were his credentials?"

Outside in the hallway, there had been the sounds of someone coming in through the main front door of the building. Now, Kitty looked towards the door of the flat and rose to her feet with a concerned look on her face when someone pushed her door open. Sherlock turned to follow her gaze as Jim Moriarty, unshaven and with his hair messy and wearing casual clothes including a cardigan, walked in with a shopping bag.

"Darling, they didn't have any ground coffee, so I just got normal…" Moriarty trailed off as he raised his eyes and stared in terror at the sight of Sherlock, whose own eyes widened. He then dropped the shopping bag and backed away until he bumped into the wall behind him, holding up his hands protectively in front of him, his voice trembling. "You said that they wouldn't find me here. You said that I'd be safe here."

"You are safe, Richard," said Kitty. "I'm a witness. He wouldn't harm you in front of witnesses."

John, his face full of shock, pointed at Moriarty. "So, _that's_ your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?" His teeth were bared, and he glared at the man, breathing heavily in pure fury.

"Of course he's Richard Brook," said Kitty. "There is no Moriarty. There never has been."

"What are you talking about?" asked John.

"Look him up," said Kitty. "Rich Brook—an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, who was still holding up his hands and looking at everyone nervously.

Moriarty's voice was shaking as he turned to John. "Dr. Watson, I know you're a good man." He backed into the corner of the room, appearing terrified under John's ferocious glare. "Don't…don't h…don't hurt me."

John pointed towards him furiously, screaming. "No, you are Moriarty!" He turned his head briefly and yelled at Kitty. "He's Moriarty!" He turned back to him. "We've met, remember? You were gonna blow me up!"

Moriarty put his hands briefly over his face and then held them up in front of himself again, sounding as if he was almost crying in fear. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He gestured towards Sherlock. "He paid me. I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work. I'm sorry, okay?"

Breathing heavily, John turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, you'd better…explain…because I am not getting this."

"Oh, I'll be doing the explaining, in print," said Kitty, handing John a folder. "It's all here—conclusive proof."

John looked at an early typed sheet of her upcoming article and then turned to the proof copy showing the layout of how it would appear in the newspaper, with spaces left for photographs. The headline read, "Sherlock's a fake!" with the strapline, "He invented all the crimes."

Kitty looked at Sherlock. "You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis."

"Invented him?" asked John.

"Mm-hmm. Invented all the crimes, actually—and to cap it all, you made up a master villain."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!"

Kitty turned and pointed towards Moriarty. "Ask him. He's right here! Just ask him. Tell him, Richard."

"Look, for God's sake, this man was on trial!"

"Yes…" Kitty pointed at Sherlock, "and you paid him, paid him to take the rap. Promised you'd rig the jury."

Sherlock stared at her silently.

"Not exactly a West End role, but I'll bet the money was good," said Kitty, walking over to Moriarty and putting her arm around his shoulders while he stood with his hands still held out in front of himself. "But not so good he didn't want to sell his story."

Moriarty looked plaintively at John, putting his hands together pleadingly. "I am sorry. I am. I am sorry."

"So-so, this is the story that you're gonna publish," John told Kitty. "The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty's an actor?" He shook his head in disbelief.

"He knows I am," said Moriarty. "I have proof. I have proof. Show him, Kitty! Show him something!"

"Yeah, show me something," said John.

Kitty walked across the room, and John turned to watch her as she reached into a bag for more information. Behind them, Moriarty had put his hands over his face, but now, he pulled his hands away from his eyes a little and looked towards Sherlock, whose own gaze had barely left him since he arrived. For a brief moment, Moriarty revealed his true self and smiled triumphantly at his enemy. Sherlock half-smiled back at him, but there was no humor in his eyes. Kitty took out a folder, walked over to John and gave it to him.

Moriarty slipped back into his Richard persona, sounding plaintive and panicked. "I'm on TV. I'm on kids' TV. I'm The Storyteller."

John looked at copies of Richard Brook's contact details apparently taken from an agency website and then a newspaper article showing a picture of Richard in glasses wearing medical scrubs and with a stethoscope around his neck. It was headlined, "Award Winning Actor Joins the Cast of Top Medical Drama."

"I'm…I'm The Storyteller," said Moriarty. "It's on DVD." He looked across to Sherlock again, this time keeping his Richard face on.

John continued looking through the folder at other publicity stills of Rich together with his CV.

Moriarty gestured towards John, looking at Sherlock pleadingly. "Just tell him. It's all coming out now. It's all over." His voice became more frantic. "Just tell them. Just tell them. Tell him!"

Baring his teeth, Sherlock started to walk towards him.

"It's all over now—NO!" Moriarty backed away from Sherlock and up a short flight of stairs towards the bedroom on the upper level of the flat, his eyes wide and terrified. "Don't you touch me! Don't you lay a finger on me!"

"Stop it," said Sherlock furiously. "Stop it NOW!"

Moriarty turned and bolted up the stairs. "Don't hurt me!"

Sherlock and John chased after him.

"Don't let him get away!" said John.

"Leave him alone!" yelled Kitty.

Moriarty ran into the bathroom on the other side of the bedroom, turning to grin manically at Sherlock for a brief second before slamming the door shut. With a parting comment from Kitty, they ran back out to the street in front of the building, but Moriarty was nowhere in sight.

* * *

John shook his head in furious rage as he entered St. Bart's Hospital. _The nerve of him. To just say "I'm sorry" after what he did?_ He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head again.

Mycroft had betrayed Sherlock— _betrayed_ him. The man had been entrusted as Sherlock's protector on Earth and had ended up telling Moriarty his entire life story. How could the man just say sorry after all of that?

John opened the door to the lab, finding Sherlock sitting against a lab bench on the floor and bouncing a small rubber ball off the floor and cupboard in front of him. "Got your message."

Sherlock caught the ball and held onto it. "The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it—beat Moriarty at his own game."

"What do you mean, 'use it'?" asked John.

"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook," said Sherlock.

"And bring back Jim Moriarty again," finished John.

Sherlock stood up. "Somewhere in 221B, somewhere—on the day of the verdict—he left it hidden." He turned and faced the bench, putting both hands on the work surface.

John walked to stand beside him, unconsciously mimicking his stance. "Uh-huh." He pursed his lips and then looked at Sherlock. "What did he touch?"

"An apple," said Sherlock. "Nothing else." He briefly drummed his fingers on the bench.

"Did he write anything down?" asked John.

"No," said Sherlock.

John hissed in a breath and looked away, racking his brains and again unconsciously mimicking his friend by drumming his own fingers on the bench. After a moment, he turned and walked across the lab, blowing the breath out again. He reached the lab doors, pausing, before turning back again. Sherlock was quickly turning around, shoving his phone into his jacket, his eyes full of thought.

John frowned at the gesture as Sherlock pulled a stool up and sat down on it, apparently ready to sit this out.

Sherlock glanced over at John, who had slumped over in his seat, his face lying on his crossed arms on the lab table. He had fallen asleep. Sherlock didn't blame him; it had been a hard few days.

Sherlock stared at his friend, wondering how in the world—if it came to it—he could ever say goodbye. And what he would do if he had to?


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven

Sherlock stepped out onto the roof as the upbeat strains of the Bee Gees echoed in the air. He had gotten rid of John by having one of his homeless network call him and pretend to be a paramedic, telling him Mrs. Hudson had been shot. It had been a necessary lie.

Sherlock had worked out how much time it would take to get a cab to Baker Street, see Mrs. Hudson was okay, and get a cab back to Bart's. It would be just enough time for John to witness Sherlock's supposed death. Because that was where this whole thing was leading: Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead. So, Sherlock would fake his death to hunt down Moriarty and his crew in anonymity. But he needed a witness to confirm his death. That was where John came in.

Now, if he could just get through his confrontation with Moriarty.

"Here we are at last," called Moriarty from his seat on the edge of the roof. "You and me, Sherlock, and our problem—the final problem." He held his mobile higher, which was where the music was coming from. "Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" Angrily, he switched the phone off.

 _Sadistic personality disorder indeed,_ thought Sherlock.

"It's just…" Moriarty held his hand out flat with the palm down and skimmed it slowly through the air, "staying." He pulled his hand back and sunk his head into it briefly.

Sherlock paced around the roof, eyes scanning for any hidden people the criminal mastermind might have stashed around.

"All my life, I've been searching for distractions," said Moriarty. "You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."

Sherlock's head turned sharply towards him as he paced. _Well, he sure seems confident, doesn't he?_

"And you know what?" said Moriarty. "In the end, it was easy."

Sherlock stopped and folded his hands behind his back.

"It was easy," said Moriarty quietly, disappointed. "Now, I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out _you're_ ordinary, just like all of them." He lowered his head again and rubbed his face before looking up at Sherlock. "Ah, well." He stood up and walked closer, starting to pace slowly around the detective. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Richard Brook," said Sherlock.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do," said Moriarty.

"Of course."

"Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach—the case that made my name."

"Just tryin' to have some fun," said Moriarty in a fake American accent. Continuing to pace around him, he looked down to Sherlock's hands and saw that he was tapping out a rhythm with his fingers. "Good. You got that, too."

"Beats like digits. Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head—a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."

Sherlock gestured to his own head. "Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."

Moriarty gazed at him for a moment and then turned away with a disappointed look on his face. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy." He buried his head in his hands. "This is too easy." Lowering his hands, he turned back to Sherlock. "There is no key, DOOFUS!" He screamed the last word into Sherlock's face. "Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."

Sherlock couldn't hide the confusion on his face.

"You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears?" said Moriarty. "I'm disappointed." He turned away and lumbered across the roof, making his voice sound moronic as he continued speaking. "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

"But the rhythm—" began Sherlock.

"'Partita number one.' Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."

"But then how did—"

"Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" Moriarty turned and spread his arms wide. "Daylight robbery! All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness—you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building—nice way to do it."

Sherlock had been staring blankly into the distance, and he frowned in bewilderment. "Do it? Do—do what?" He blinked as it became clearer to him, and he turned towards Moriarty. "Yes, of course. My suicide."

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales."

Sherlock walked to the edge of the roof and leaned forward, looking over the side to the ground below.

Moriarty walked to stand beside him and looked over the side as well. "And pretty Grimm ones, too." He turned his head and looked ominously at Sherlock.

Sherlock turned towards Moriarty. "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."

"Oh, just kill yourself," said Moriarty, exasperated. "It's a lot less effort."

Sherlock turned away, pacing distractedly.

"Go on," said Moriarty. "For me." He made his voice into a high-pitched squeal for the next word. "Pleeeeease!"

In a sudden movement, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar of his coat with both hands and spun him around so that Moriarty's back was to the drop. He stared into his face and then shoved him back one step nearer the edge. Moriarty looked at him with interest.

"You're insane," said Sherlock.

Moriarty blinked. "You're just getting that now?"

Sherlock shoved him further back, now holding him over the edge.

Moriarty whooped almost triumphantly and gazed back at him with no fear in his eyes, holding his hands out wide and committing himself to Sherlock's grasp. "Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

Sherlock frowned.

"Your friends will die if you don't," said Moriarty savagely.

Fear began to creep into Sherlock's eyes. "John…"

"Not just John," said Moriarty, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Everyone."

"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock.

Moriarty smiled delightedly, voice still a whisper. " _Everyone_."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now."

Furiously, Sherlock pulled him back upwards to safety.

Moriarty stared into his face. "Unless my people see you jump."

Sherlock gazed past him, breathing heavily and lost in horror.

Moriarty shook himself free of his grasp and smiled triumphantly. "You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die… _unless_ —"

"Unless I kill myself…complete your story," said Sherlock, staring down towards the pavement.

Moriarty nodded and smiled ecstatically. "You've gotta admit that's sexier."

Sherlock allowed his gaze to become distant and lost, trying to sell the despair. "And I die in disgrace."

"Of course," said Moriarty in a matter-of-fact tone. "That's the point of this."

Sherlock continued to stare at the ground, feigning shock while plotting out exactly where they would put the airbag and where he would have to plant John.

"It won't work, you know."

Shocked by the abrupt change in topic and tone, Sherlock frowned as he looked up at the man, who was smiling. "What won't work?"

"Yours and 'Big Brother's' plan to fake your death and then hunt me and my people down in secrecy," Moriarty told him with a very sober face.

Sherlock could not stop the surprised blink of his eyes as his jaw twitched slightly before he could school his features.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," grumbled Moriarty. "We're better than that, and you know it. Of course I figured out your little plan, pathetic and boring as it was." He gave a smug smirk. "It won't work."

Sherlock hesitated a moment before gritting his teeth together. "And why is that?"

Moriarty reached into his pocket and withdrew a small device with a screen on it, almost like a PDA. The screen showed a blood pressure of 124/81, a body temperature of 36.3 degrees Celsius, O2 saturation of 98%, lung respirations of 14, and a pulse (with an actual EKG readout) of 94. Sherlock stared at it, realizing the monitor was beating at the same time his own heart was.

"Biometric scanner," Moriarty told him. "My own design." He lowered the monitor in front of him and looked down at it. "Quite genius, if I do say so myself." He looked back up at Sherlock. "See, the genius of it is, the thing swims through the bloodstream and burrows into the spinal column. Attaches right to the brainstem and won't release until its host is dead."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "How?"

"Your flat, day of the verdict," Moriarty answered. He smiled. "The key code wasn't the only thing I planted."

Sherlock's gaze fell to the roof as he brought up his memory of that visit. Moriarty hadn't touched anything but the apple. How did…? Then, it came to him.

 _Sherlock swept the bow of his violin towards John's armchair, but Moriarty stepped past it to Sherlock's chair. Moriarty had passed by the tea, his hand hovering over the cup of milk on the tray._

Sherlock's eyes closed as the truth of his situation hit him. "The tea."

"Very good," praised Moriarty. "So, you see, there is no cheating this. Each of those snipers has a transponder just like this, and if your heart does not stop, they will kill your only three friends." He smiled. "Seems as though you are well and truly—" he put on a British accent for the next word, "buggered."

Sherlock sighed, hanging his head in defeat. _No…no…_

Moriarty looked over the side and saw that someone had stopped at the benches near the bus stop below them and several other people were in the vicinity. "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop." He rolled his head from side to side on his neck. "Go on."

Sherlock slowly stepped past him and up onto the ledge, staring down at the pavement below.

"I told you how this ends," said Moriarty.

Sherlock's breathing became shaky as he looked down.

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers," said Moriarty. " _I'm_ certainly not gonna do it." He turned his head and looked up at his enemy expectantly.

Sherlock blinked anxiously as he glanced down at him. "Would you give me…one moment, please? One moment of privacy? Please?"

Moriarty looked away, slightly disappointed. "Of course." He moved away across the roof.

Sherlock stared around at the surrounding buildings. _Oh, my God, this is it…_

He took a breath to prepare himself for the plunge when suddenly, Moriarty's words came back to him.

" _Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers._ I'm _certainly not gonna do it."_

Sherlock lifted his gaze as the world brightened around him. This was it: his way out. He wouldn't have to abandon John after all. He would be able to stay in London and not have to give his life. Oh, it's Christmas!

A smile slowly spread across his face, and he started to chuckle, the chuckles rising into delighted laughter.

"What?" Moriarty exclaimed behind him.

Sherlock only continued to laugh at Moriarty's ignorance of his slip-up.

"What is it?" asked Moriarty angrily.

Sherlock half-turned on the ledge, smiling towards him as the man glared back.

"What did I miss?" demanded Moriarty, seemingly infuriated at Sherlock's continued glee.

Sherlock hopped down off the ledge and walked closer to him. "' _You're_ not going to do it'? So, the killers **can** be called off, then; there's a recall code or a word or a number." He circled around his prey as Moriarty stared at the roof, not quite getting it yet. "I don't have to die…" his voice became sing-song as he allowed some of his rare enjoyment to come out, "if I've got you."

"Oh!" The pieces clicked as Moriarty laughed in relieved delight. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think _you_ can make me do that?"

"Yes. So do you."

"Sherlock, Mycroft and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

Sherlock stopped and got into his face. "Yes, but I'm not Mycroft, remember? I am you—prepared to do anything, prepared to burn, prepared to do what _ordinary_ people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

Moriarty shook his head slowly. "Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary—you're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock's voice became more ominous. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels…but don't think for _one second_ …that I am one of them."

The two of them locked eyes for a long moment while Moriarty tried to deduce how far Sherlock would go.

Moriarty's calculating stare morphed into a wide-eyed one. "No…you're not." He blinked, closing his eyes briefly.

Sherlock did likewise in relief.

Moriarty smiled and opened his eyes again. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He hissed out a delighted laugh, and his voice became more high-pitched. "You're me! Thank you!" He lifted his right hand as if to embrace Sherlock, but then lowered it and offered it to him to shake instead. "Sherlock Holmes."

They both looked down at the offered hand, and then Sherlock slowly raised his own right hand and took it.

Moriarty nodded almost frenetically, although his voice stayed soft. "Thank you. Bless you." He blinked and lowered his gaze as if blinking back tears. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out." He continued to blink with his gaze lowered. "Well, good luck with that."

In rapid succession, Moriarty raised his eyes to Sherlock's, grinned manically, opened his mouth wide and pulled Sherlock closer while he reached into his waistband with his other hand and pulled out a pistol, raising it towards his own mouth. As Sherlock instinctively pulled back, crying out in alarm, Moriarty stuck the muzzle into his own mouth and pulled the trigger, dropping to the roof instantly. Sherlock stared in horror as blood began to trickle across the roof underneath Moriarty's head.

 _No…_ Sherlock thought as he stared at the body. _No, no, no…_

Not that he would keep Moriarty alive if he had a choice, but to lose his last hope of sparing John any pain in his passing, of saving his own life…

Moriarty's eyes were fixed and open, and there was a smile of victory upon his face. Sherlock spun away from him, his breathing noisy and frantic as he raised his hands to his head in horror. Holding his sleeve up over his mouth in horror, he turned to look again at Moriarty's fixed grin. Moriarty's coat had opened upon his face, and laying half-out of an inside pocket was the monitor.

Sherlock stepped forward and snatched it from the ground, holding it up in front of him. The blood pressure had risen to 140/96, the body temperature had gone up a half degree, the respirations were 28, and the pulse had risen to a frantic 132. The snipers…They knew he was still alive. What time limit had Moriarty given them before they acted? How long did he have before his friends were killed?

Sherlock slowly turned towards the edge of the building. His breathing began to slow as he stepped up onto the ledge, blowing out another breath and looking down towards the ground. In the street below, a taxi pulled up, one that Sherlock knew John would be in. Sherlock dropped the monitor to the roof and pulled out his phone, speed dialing and putting the phone to his ear.

The answering phone began to ring on the other line as the taxi's rear door opened and John got out, raising a phone to his ear as he trotted towards the hospital. _"Hello?"_

"John," said Sherlock.

" _Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"_

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now," said Sherlock firmly.

" _No, I'm coming in."_

"Just do as I ask," said Sherlock frantically. "Please."

John came to a stop and turned around, looking around in bewilderment. _"Where?"_

Sherlock paused as he waited for John to reach a spot almost directly across from him on the pavement. Finally, John had reached his position, the position originally meant to provide cover behind the ambulance station so John wouldn't see the airbag. "Stop there."

John came to a stop, looking around. _"Sherlock?"_

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

John turned and looked up, and Sherlock didn't need to see his face to know that he was staring at him in horror. _"Oh, God…"_

"I…I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this," said Sherlock vaguely, not yet able to bring himself to spell it out for him.

" _What's going on?"_ John asked anxiously.

"An apology," said Sherlock, pausing for a moment. "It's all true."

" _What?"_

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Sherlock looked around briefly at his enemy's grinning body lying behind him.

John was silent for a long moment. _"Why are you saying this?"_

Sherlock turned back to look down at him, his voice surprisingly breaking. "I'm a fake."

" _Sherlock—"_

"The newspapers were right all along," said Sherlock tearfully. "I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly…In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

" _Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met—_ _ **the first time we met**_ _—you knew all about my sister, right?"_

"Nobody could be that clever."

" _ **You**_ _could."_

Sherlock laughed and gazed down at his friend, a tear dripping from his chin. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you." He sniffed quietly. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

He could see John shaking his head repeatedly. _"No. All right, stop it now."_ He started to walk towards the hospital entrance.

"No, stay **exactly** where you are!" Sherlock told him urgently. He had to stay there! "Don't move."

John stopped and backed up, holding up his hand towards Sherlock in capitulation. _"All right."_

Breathing rapidly and knowing this was the last time Sherlock would ever see his friend, he stretched out a hand towards his friend. "Keep your eyes fixed on me." His voice became frantic. _How much time was left?_ "Please, will you do this for me?"

" _Do what?"_

"This phone call—it's, er…" Sherlock hesitated, knowing that once he made his intentions clear that that would be it. It would be time to go. "It's my note." He paused again, letting that sink in. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

John shook his head, momentarily taking his phone from his ear before raising it again, his voice shaky. _"Leave a note when? Sherlock—"_

"John, listen to me." Sherlock paused, making sure he had John's attention. And, apparently, his tone of voice worked, as John stopped talking. "I am and always shall be…your friend."

" _Sherlock—"_

"Goodbye, John."

John shook his head. _"No. Don't."_

Sherlock gazed down at his friend for several seconds and then lowered his arm and dropped the phone onto the roof, gazing ahead of himself.

John lowered his own phone and screamed upwards. "No—SHERLOCK!"

"I'm sorry, John…" Sherlock whispered as he spread his arms and took the final step forward.

* * *

 **Yes, I actually did it. Sherlock is dead. But, hey, this is Sherlock we're talking about here! You don't think I would leave it that way, would you? Hint: "Search for Spock"**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight

 **For the purposes of my story's timeline, I am changing Vulcan history. By early 21** **st** **century, they were capable of Warp 4 (I read that they invented warp drive in 1947 and had only reached Warp 2 in a century, so I had to fib).**

* * *

John stared in horror as Sherlock stepped off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital and began plummeting towards the ground. "Sher…"

A couple of endless—yet all too quick—seconds later, the body impacted the ground.

John's hearing whited out as his entire body focused on getting to Sherlock as soon as he could. Sherlock had disappeared from view towards the end of his fall because a building was in the way. John now ran to the corner of the building and then slowed down and stopped in the middle of the road when he got his first glimpse of the still figure lying on the wet pavement, the lower part of his body obscured by a lorry parked at the roadside.

Something in him snapped, and John finally started moving again, rushing forwards and stumbling towards his fallen friend as onlookers began to gather. He forced himself forward, calling his friend's name softly. He finally reached the lorry as it pulled away, and he fell down on his knees next to his friend.

"Sherlock…" John forced out past the lump in his throat.

Blood streaked the pavement around his friend's head, almost like a dark halo. Blood stained his face and hair, pooling in his open and staring eyes.

"Oh, God—" choked out John.

Someone placed their hands on his shoulders.

John immediately shucked their hands off. "He's my friend! I'm a doctor." He added the last almost as an after-thought. And that comment sparked his memory; that was right, he was a doctor.

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. He placed his fingers to the carotid artery. Nothing. "Come on, Sherlock. Don't you dare die on me." He braced himself on his heels and clasped his hands together, pressing onto Sherlock's sternum in fifteen quick compressions. He then leaned forward to give two breaths and went back to compressions.

Someone else put a hand on his shoulder. "Sir, you should let us do that—"

"I'm a doctor!" John threw at them as he continued. He gave two breaths and then felt for the carotid pulse again. Nothing. He thumped his fist onto Sherlock's heart. "Come on, Sherlock!" He tried compressions again.

"Sir, he's gone…" someone said softly next to him.

"No, he's not!" John yelled, giving two breaths and feeling for a pulse.

"Sir—"

"No!" John yelled, giving compressions. "He's not dead! He's not…" He broke off, unable to see the body in front of him through his blurry tears. "No…" He slowly collapsed, his adrenaline wearing off in an instant.

As he began to fall, someone caught him, letting him lean against their shoulder. The paramedics that had been waiting nearby for him to finish stepped forward and grasped hold of Sherlock's ankles and shoulders. They pulled him off the pavement and placed him on the gurney before wheeling him inside.

John stared after it, his face blank and uncomprehending. He finally managed to get to his feet and shook off his helpers, staring blindly in the direction that his friend's body had been taken.

* * *

In the two days before the funeral, John had received a message from Mycroft, relating when the services would be. There was also a formal document, explaining that Sherlock would be returned to Vulcan eventually and would not actually be buried in the cemetery. They had to wait for the European Space Agency to launch a hastily commissioned deep space probe, one set aside by the British government in case Sherlock ever needed to get back home.

Since a Vulcan ship did not have the ability to cloak itself like a Klingon ship could (whatever Klingons were), they could not risk Earth's radar picking it up, not to mention how they would land the thing on Earth with no one seeing it. Sherlock's coffin would be placed in a cargo bay aboard the probe, where a Vulcan ship would meet it halfway and would use a shuttlecraft to board and retrieve Sherlock.

The process would take approximately a month to accomplish, something about Vulcan being sixteen light years away and warp drive only capable of reaching 102 times the speed of light ( _Only?!_ John had thought in shock when he read that). At any rate, Sherlock would be home in a little less than two months.

John wasn't too keen with the idea of sending Sherlock into the void like that, but he supposed the Vulcans had been doing this for thousands of years, so he was in good hands. But there was something about never seeing his friend again. Well, sure, he would be dead, but he would **be** there. His feelings over the matter were all very complicated, something Sherlock would be likely to scoff at.

He wished he could go with him, maybe see his friend's home world, but it was impossible. Maybe one day, he would be allowed, but for now, all he could do was sit and stare at his friend's empty armchair.

* * *

"Why today?"

John sat in a chair in his therapist's office, staring at her with pain. Thunder rumbled outside as rain poured down the windows next to him. He frowned inquiringly at her question. "Do you want to hear me say it?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment," she pointed out.

John's voice became quietly angry. _Why is she asking? She must know…_ "Do you read the papers?"

"Sometimes."

"Mm, and you watch telly? You **know** why I'm here." His voice emitted a pained groan. "I'm here because…" His voice broke, and he couldn't continue. He looked down, swallowing hard while he fought not to weep.

She leaned forward sympathetically. "What happened, John?"

John closed his eyes, trying to get control of himself, and then looked up at her again, his eyes full of loss. He cleared his throat and breathed heavily. "Sher…" He cleared his throat again, swallowing hard.

"You need to get it out."

"My best friend…Sherlock Holmes…" John couldn't believe he was about to say this, "is dead." He broke and began to cry.

His therapist waited while he grieved a moment and then gathered himself.

"There's stuff that you wanted to say…" she continued.

John opened his mouth briefly but then closed it.

"…but didn't say it," she finished.

"Yeah," said John, his voice breaking.

"Say it now," she told him.

"No," said John, fighting to hold back the tears and shaking his head. "Sorry. I can't."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson and John stepped up to the tree where Sherlock's grave lay. He knew that Sherlock wasn't really down there, that his body was in fact waiting to be loaded into a spaceship to get him back to Vulcan. But to have this reminder that Sherlock had been here, that he had actually lived…

It was a beautiful black marble headstone, the words SHERLOCK HOLMES etched in gold lettering on the front. It was all they could put there. After all, Sherlock's birthday had been an estimate for his fake birth certificate. And putting that on there just felt wrong. This should be a memorial to everything that Sherlock was, not what people believed.

John and Mrs. Hudson stood in silence for a long while, just remembering their friend.

"There's all the stuff, all the science equipment," said Mrs. Hudson finally. "I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school." She looked at John. "Would you…"

"I can't go back to the flat again—not at the moment," said John.

Mrs. Hudson took his arm sympathetically.

"I'm angry," said John, taking a deep breath through his nose and trying not to break down.

Mrs. Hudson gently patted his arm. "It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel." She gazed at the headstone. "All the marks on my table. And the noise—firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah," said John fondly, slightly stung by the reminder of everything he would not get to see or hear from his friend again.

"Bloody specimens in my fridge," said Mrs. Hudson. "Imagine—keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes." John closed his eyes as she continued, her own voice breaking.

"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

John turned to her. "Yeah, listen: I-I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

"Okay." Mrs. Hudson turned away, pulling her arm free of his. "I'll leave you alone to, erm…" her voice broke again, "you know." Crying, she walked away, fishing out a tissue to blow her nose.

John looked down at the grave, drawing in a deep breath. He looked back over his shoulder to make sure Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot and then turned back to the grave again. "Um…mm…" He pulled himself together a little. "You…you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um…there were times I didn't even think you were human—" he broke off as he realized what he had just said, and he smiled slightly, "but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most…" he smiled slightly again, "human…human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so…there."

John blew out a breath, whimpering slightly. Looking over his shoulder again, he walked over to the headstone and put his fingertips onto the top of it. "I was…so alone…and I owe you so much." He took a tearful breath. "Okay." He turned and started to walk away, but only reached the foot of the grave before he turned back again.

"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing; one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't…be…" John's voice broke and filled with tears, "dead…Would you do—Just for me, just stop it." He gestured down at the grave. "Stop this."

John sighed and lowered his head as he stood there, broken. He lowered his head further, covered his eyes with one hand and wept. After a moment, his hand moved down to his mouth, the back of it resting under his nose as he let out a pained, muffled groan. After another moment, the other hand joined, and they instantly slid together, palm to palm, and rested in front of his mouth, the tips of the fingers just under his nose. He let out a shaky breath to get a hold of himself.

As he calmed down a little and opened his eyes, he noticed what his hands had done, almost out of instinct. John moved the steepled hands away from his face slightly, looking down at them with a frown. He was suddenly struck with dozens of images of when his best friend had done just the same on countless occasions. John lowered his hands to his sides, wondering. He hadn't meant to do that. Had he?

After a moment, the question was discarded as John wiped his eyes, sniffed deeply and raised his head, coming to attention in front of his best friend. Nodding in salute to him and giving himself permission to dismiss, he turned smartly on one heel and then walked away.

* * *

 **And so it begins...Oh, I've had such fun writing the next few chapters.**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Nine

John tossed and turned in his bed, trying and failing to get to sleep for the millionth time that night. No matter how hard he tried, he just could not sleep. Sighing, he tossed his blankets back and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. What was wrong? Why couldn't he sleep?

He sighed again, breaking the silence of the night. He opened his eyes as he raised his head, staring at the floor. _Oh, my God…_

Silence. That was why he couldn't sleep. True, Sherlock had slept every once in a while, but now, John was all too aware of the lack of noise from downstairs.

John lowered his head back into his hands, his throat tightening as he fought to hold in the sobs. _Sherlock…_

Pulling himself together, he got to his feet and opened his bedroom door, heading down the stairs. He reached the first floor and flipped the lights on in the sitting room. His eyes went unerringly to the black leather armchair sitting empty in front of the fireplace. The tears threatened to break out again as John stepped over towards the chair, raising his hand towards it. His fingers almost reached the arm of the chair before pulling back, unable to bring himself to touch it.

Instead, his eyes landed on the violin case on the floor behind the chair. John circled around and knelt on the floor, reaching out slowly and flipping the latches on the case. Hesitating a moment, he pulled the lid open. Nestled inside the felt-lined case was Sherlock's Stradivarius. John reached his hand forward and—rather feeling like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar—wrapped it around the neck of the instrument, lifting it from the case. John stared at it for a moment before getting to his feet and settling into his own armchair. Laying the violin across his lap, he absently put his finger to one of the strings and plucked it.

The sound echoed in the sitting room, stirring up old memories.

" _How do you feel about the violin?"_

" _I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes, I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"_

 _No,_ John thought. _No, it wouldn't. In fact, I'd love it right about now._

Why had he done it? Why had Sherlock jumped? He was Vulcan; he had no ego to bruise, no feelings to hurt. Why had he let those rumors get to him? Because they weren't true; John knew they weren't true. Sherlock may have been arrogant and a show-off, but he hadn't had one cruel bone in his body. In fact, his final act had proven that. Why would he have killed himself to avoid those rumors if he really had done it?

John closed his eyes at the thought, his memories of Sherlock's fall flashing before him.

" _This phone call…it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

" _I am and always shall be your friend."_

" _Goodbye, John."_

" _SHERLOCK!"_

John opened his eyes, looking over at the empty armchair across from him. He slowly shook his head. _Why, Sherlock?_

After a moment, the sound of a song being plucked on a set of strings came to him. John frowned as he looked down at the violin. He had moved it so that the body of the instrument rested against the left side of his chest. His left hand was on the fingerboard, holding down various strings as his right hand plucked those strings. It could've been a random indulgence as he remembered his friend except for the fact that John recognized the song: Dukas' "Sorcerer's Apprentice."

John stared in amazement as he continued to pluck out the song. Sure, he could play the clarinet a little, but woodwinds and strings were very different. Just how was he doing this?

The song picked up, his fingers beginning to fly faster over the strings. His eyes widening, John wrenched his hands away and grabbed the violin, getting up to set it in Sherlock's chair and backing away quickly. He took several deep breaths as he stared at it, shocked. It was almost as though his hands had had a mind of their own, like he'd been a puppet.

 _What the bloody hell is happening to me?_

* * *

Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs of Baker Street, heading up to her boys'— _not_ boys _; not anymore—_ flat. She carried a tray of tea with her. As she reached the flat, she heard something she hadn't heard in days: the frantic pacing of someone deep in thought.

 _Sherlock?_ she wondered. _It can't be…_

She pushed open the door to find John still in his sleep clothes and his robe hanging open on him, pacing back and forth in the sitting room. His hair was disheveled, as though he had run his hands through it multiple times. There were bags under his eyes, which were bloodshot and slightly wild-looking.

"Are you all right, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked, setting the tea tray on the coffee table.

"Didn't get any sleep," John explained, turning to stride back to the windows.

"I didn't get much either," said Mrs. Hudson, pouring some tea.

"I couldn't stand the silence in the flat," John told her, coming to a stop as she handed him a cup of tea.

"It's amazing how much you miss the noise and everything once it's gone," Mrs. Hudson agreed, picking up her own cup.

John sat in his chair, sipping his tea.

"You really should try to get some sleep, John," Mrs. Hudson told him. "You look awful."

John nodded. "I can't. There's something…" he grimaced in frustration. "There's something I'm forgetting. I just can't…" He stared off into the distance, lost in thought.

"It'll come to you," she told him, taking a drink from her tea before setting it down. "Get some rest."

"Mm, tedious," John mumbled in a quiet voice.

Mrs. Hudson froze in her attempt to stand and stared at John.

After a moment, John seemed to realize what he had just said, and he startled out of his stare a little. He looked up in confusion and embarrassment. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Looks like I'm just really missing him today."

"That's okay, John," she told him, standing and heading out of the flat.

As Mrs. Hudson headed back downstairs to her flat, John stared down at his tea. First, the violin and now that comment? His mind must really be on Sherlock today. His friend's ghost was fighting its way into his life; the violin, the sarcastic comments, the restlessness, the experiments—

 _Oh, damn!_

John hurried into the kitchen, whipping open the fridge and pulling out a tray of Petri dishes. He quickly pulled a bottle from a cupboard nearby, opening it and pouring a few drops into each dish. He waited with bated breath for a moment before the substance in the dishes began to fizz.

John let out a relieved breath. _That was close._

He paused and then stared down at Sherlock's experiment, frowning. _Why…_ He must've remembered it from Sherlock's talking about it. Lord knows he never shut up about them. That had to be it.

John picked up the tray and turned towards the trash bin, but paused before throwing it in. Smiling a bit, he turned and placed it back in the fridge and closed the door.

"Dr. Watson."

John turned to see Mycroft standing in the kitchen doorway. He clenched his fists, giving the man a hard glare. "What are you doing here?"

"There are some things we need to discuss," said Mycroft.

"No," said John.

"John—"

"Don't," John told him, barely holding in his anger. "Just don't. Get out." He turned and began heading for the sitting room.

"We planned the whole thing."

John froze in his steps, slowly looking back at him. "What?"

"Sherlock and I planned the whole thing," Mycroft told him.

John's frown deepened as he turned towards him. "You planned…what, exactly?"

"We knew Moriarty would not rest until he had brought down Sherlock," explained Mycroft. "So, we gave him certain information—Sherlock's life story—in order to get information back. But, then, you already knew that."

John nodded, remembering their conversation the night before Sherlock died.

"We let him go, to make him believe he'd gotten the upper hand," Mycroft went on. "We knew that Moriarty would try to arrange Sherlock's death, so we made several dozen contingency plans to fake his death."

John had stopped breathing at that point. _He's alive?_ "So…it was all faked?"

Mycroft hesitated before sadly shaking his head. "I don't know what happened on that roof…but Sherlock chose not to use any of the back-up scenarios." He paused a moment. "He chose to jump off of that roof."

John's inflating hope died in his chest, and his breath whooshed out of him. He had trouble forming a complete thought in this moment. "But…why…"

"We had suspected Moriarty would use people close to Sherlock to get him to kill himself," said Mycroft. "Snipers, set on you, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"Snipers?" said John in alarm.

"I believe Moriarty threatened to kill the three of you unless Sherlock died. Something must have happened that left Sherlock with no choice. Perhaps Moriarty revealed that someone was watching. Whatever the reason…Sherlock is dead."

John paused for a while. "Why are you telling me this? It doesn't change anything. He's still gone."

"You deserved to know that it wasn't supposed to be this way," Mycroft told him. "What little comfort that is."

John nodded, looking away a moment before turning back. "Is that it?"

"Just one more thing," said Mycroft, stepping a little closer. "Did Sherlock mention anything to you? Any…last requests?"

"How could he?" asked John. "He didn't know he was going to die, not really."

Mycroft peered closely at him. "So, there's nothing you wish to share with me? No random thoughts or…sudden urges? Perhaps involving Mount Seleya?"

John frowned in confusion. This was more random than any conversation he'd ever had with Sherlock. He had never even heard of a Mount Seleya. "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft peered at him with narrowed eyes a bit longer. John felt like he was being taken apart, and he found it a welcome, missed sight.

Mycroft's eyes relaxed as he looked away. "Nothing. It doesn't matter anymore." He looked back up with—was that disappointment?—in his eyes. "Good day, John." He turned and strode abruptly from the flat.

John stared after him, Mycroft's words echoing in his head.

" _Sherlock's last requests…"_

" _Sudden urges…"_

" _Mount Seleya…"_

The phrases faded to silence as John shook his head a little, turning to go get dressed.

* * *

 **Have you figured it out yet? Probably.**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Ten

John stepped into the pub, eyes darting over the crowd until he spotted Greg at a table near the back. John suspected he had picked that table for privacy for their possibly conversation.

"Hey, Greg!" said John as he sat next to him.

"John," greeted Greg, pushing one of the glasses on the table over. "Got you a pint."

"Ta," said John, taking a drink from it.

"How you holding up?" the inspector asked after a moment.

John looked up at him before looking back at his glass. "Not good, Greg."

"No?" asked Greg in concern, leaning forward.

"I think I'm going out of my mind," John told him. "It's been eighteen days since he died, and it still feels like he just left. And I'm not just talking grief. This is…" He trailed off and then glanced around him before continuing. "I can hardly sleep anymore, my mind won't shut up. I'm playing the violin now— _playing_! Not that I'm as good as he was, but it's like I've been playing for months. I'm playing songs from memory I don't even _know_! I'm bored all the time, I'm continuing his experiments in the fridge and _understanding_ them, I'm snapping at Mrs. Hudson, I'm _craving cigarettes_!"

Greg stared in shock as John took a breather to gulp down some beer.

"It's like his ghost is haunting me," gritted out John. He looked up at Greg desperately. "I went to grab my coat to leave, and I found his Belstaff in my hand!"

Greg took a moment to process that before pointing at him. "That would explain the scarf."

"Wha—" John frowned as he looked down to see one of Sherlock's scarves, looped around his neck and knotted close to his throat just like the detective had always worn it. "Oh, my God!" He whipped the scarf off of his neck and tossed it onto the table. He breathed heavily as he buried his head in his hands.

"Hey," said Greg, placing a hand on John's shoulder. "This will pass. Sherlock was such a presence in our lives—in _your_ life—that he left a huge hole in it. The grief will leave eventually. That sounds horrible, but it's true. Give it time."

John looked up as Greg removed his hand. "I haven't slept in four days, Greg."

"Have you tried a sleeping pill?" Greg asked.

John's face contorted in disgust. "Ugh. Slows me down." His eyes widened a moment later. "Oh, God…" He buried his face in his hands again.

Greg's phone beeped at him, and he glanced at it to see a text from Donovan.

 **Homicide. 52 Benchley Street.**

Greg looked at John, an idea springing into his head. "Come on." He stood from his seat.

John's head shot up in curiosity. "What?"

"You're coming with me," Greg told him, pulling out his wallet and tossing some notes onto the table.

"Where?" asked John, standing.

"Crime scene," Greg explained, pocketing his wallet. "Just got a text from Donovan."

"Crime scene?" asked John warily, and it didn't take a genius like Sherlock Holmes to see that the doctor was nervous about being in that kind of environment so soon after his friend's death.

"You've been cooped up in that flat far too long," Greg told him. "You need to get out. Come on." He began heading for the pub's front door only to look back and see John frozen halfway between him and the table.

John was turning to look back at it, staring at the scarf he had forgotten. He walked back and slowly lifted the scarf, holding it gingerly for a moment before tucking it into a coat pocket.

Greg pulled up to the fish and chip shop, parking the car. The front of the restaurant had been closed off, and police cars were lined along the curb, their lights flashing. "Shit. Reporters." He glanced over a John in the passenger seat. "You can stay here if you want."

"No, no, it's fine," John told him, grabbing for the door handle.

"All right, then." Greg opened his own door and climbed out.

Once the reporters spotted John getting out of the car, the questions began.

"Dr. Watson! Is this your first crime scene after Mr. Holmes' death?"

"Is it true you're seeing a therapist to deal with your friend's suicide?"

"Are the police bringing you in for questioning for this murder?"

"Oi, back off!" Greg shouted at them as he and John hurried into the building.

"Christ…" John mumbled, looking a little unsettled.

"Inspector."

Greg looked up to see Donovan in the doorway of the toilets. He looked at John. "Need a moment?"

John shook his head, gesturing briefly in the sergeant's direction. "Lead the way."

Greg headed through the small dining room and past Donovan into the women's bathroom, John right behind him.

A slender blonde woman, around her mid-twenties, lay on the floor of the washroom, blood pooled under her torso and stained on the front of her shirt. She lay on her back, her legs bent and splayed below her. Her arms were by her sides, her hands stained in dark, dried blood. A bullet hole was in her gut over her liver, and there were faded purple bruises around her neck.

"Amanda Ross, twenty-four," said Donovan as she strolled in after them. "Woman came in around 7:15 and found her. Shot in the stomach with a .22, looks like. There's no exit wound, so the bullet didn't pierce through. No one heard the shot, so the killer must have used a silencer. Haven't found the gun, and no one reported any suspicious characters during the night. The primary suspect is Stefan Gray."

"Suspect?" prompted Greg.

"Ross called 999 last week for a domestic disturbance," said Donovan. "Her boyfriend, Gray, had tried to strangle her." She gestured at the bruised throat.

John frowned as his eyes scanned over the dead woman. Her gunshot wound. The blood on the floor. The bruises on her neck. The clean floor leading from her to the door.

"All right, put out an APW for Gray," Greg instructed as Anderson appeared at the door. "Tell them he could be armed and dangerous. Approach with caution." He turned to leave the room with Donovan.

"No."

Greg and Donovan turned back to see John frowning down at the woman's body.

"What?" asked Donovan.

John was shaking his head slightly. "It's not right…"

Greg took a step closer. "What do you mean?"

John frowned as he glanced at Greg. "I don't know. It's—it's just…" he was frowning back at the woman, "wrong." He tilted his head a little as he stepped to the left side of the woman and squatted down beside her. He stared at her neck for a moment before reaching for it. He paused and glanced over at Greg. "Forensics already been here?"

"Yeah," Donovan answered, crossing her arms.

John turned back to his task, reaching forward and wrapping his hand gingerly around her throat. After a moment, he then pulled his hand back and looked up at Donovan. "When she called the police for the domestic, did any of the officers ever actually _see_ Gray?"

Donovan frowned, stunned that he could know that. "No, they didn't. When they responded, he was already gone. When they tracked him down later that night, he had a solid alibi." She gestured to the body. "Or so they thought."

John looked down at the body, moving so he could look at the gunshot wound clearer.

Greg glanced at Donovan and Anderson in confusion before looking back at John.

John suddenly looked up at them. "Does anyone have a-a magnifying glass or something?"

Anderson stepped outside of the room and came back a moment later with a palm-sized magnifying glass, leaning forward to hand it to him. Normally, the man wasn't this accommodating of others trampling all over his crime scene ( _Sound like anyone you know, Greg?_ ), but they were all intrigued at this point.

John quickly snatched the glass from Anderson's hand and whipped a small flashlight out of his coat pocket. He depressed the switch on the side and aimed the light at the gunshot wound, positioning the magnifier over the wound and leaning down to peer through it.

Greg stepped around to the other side of the body, watching John as he worked. The former army doctor was moving the magnifier slightly as he examined the wound. And the expression on his face—those furrowed brows, the thin line of the mouth, the darting and calculating eyes—spoke surprising volumes to him. The last time Greg had seen that face…

 _Sherlock…_

John suddenly pocketed the glass and flashlight and grasped the woman's hand, avoiding the blood on it. He lifted it and turned it back and forth, looking closely at the palm. He glanced back at the body and then started looking around the room, his eyes finally landing on a stall whose door was hanging open slightly. Greg watched as a smirk pulled at the corner of John's mouth—a very familiar smirk—and the doctor lowered the hand to the floor and stood.

"Accidental suicide, trying to frame the boyfriend," John told them.

Donovan and Anderson both frowned in skepticism, but Greg had seen the look on John's face, and coupled with what John had told him at the pub, he was curious.

"What makes you say that?" he asked.

John looked at him. "She wasn't shot. She stabbed herself."

Donovan frowned in confusion. "But the wound was made by a bullet."

"Yes, it was," said John vaguely.

Resisting the urge to smirk at the memorable behavior, Greg stepped forward. "How is that possible?"

John turned towards him. "She attached a bullet on the end of a small rod."

"Oh, you can't be serious," complained Anderson.

John looked at Donovan. "You said no one heard the shot."

"He used a silencer," Donovan brushed off.

"There never was a gun," John told them sharply. "She stabbed herself."

"Why?" asked Greg. "Why do you think she stabbed herself?"

"If she had been shot, why is there so much blood?" John pointed out.

The three officers stared at him.

"That's a trick question, right?" said Anderson.

John stepped around to the other side of the body next to Greg in order to give all of them a clear view of the body. "The way that she fell, she shouldn't have bled out this much. When the body is pierced, the safest solution is to leave the object in because it plugs the hole, yes?" He knelt next to the body, pointing at the wound. "Having fallen on her back, gravity and the bullet would have kept the bloodshed to a minimum, probably giving her enough time to be found. Clearly, she didn't know that, and she pulled her makeshift dagger out and bled out. Wait for the autopsy; I guarantee you there is no bullet in there."

"Why would she do that?" asked Donovan. "Kill herself to frame Gray? That doesn't make any sense."

"I did say 'accidental,'" John pointed out as he stood. "She hadn't intended to die. She meant to be found before she bled out, but, again, she pulled the dagger out. Why do you think there's no blood leading to the door? If you'd been shot, wouldn't you go for help?"

"She didn't need a special dagger for that," Anderson pointed out. "She could have shot herself with a silencer on the gun and then hit something like the aorta and bled out."

"The aorta's two inches left of that hole!" John exclaimed. "And she couldn't have shot herself. Look at her reach!" He gestured to the woman's arms.

"What about it?" asked Donovan.

"It's hard enough to shoot yourself in the stomach," John told them as he moved his hand to mime holding a gun aimed at himself, "which is why suicides usually go for headshots. But a silencer?" He moved his hand further away from his body to accommodate the silencer at the end of the gun's barrel. "Makes it a bit hard to hit your target, doesn't it?"

"Okay, so, framing the boyfriend," said Greg. "Why do you think that?"

John knelt next to the body. "The police never saw Gray because he wasn't there. His alibi was true. She faked the whole call without bothering to check where he was."

"What about the bruises?" Anderson pointed to her neck.

"Too thin to be made by hands," said John. "If Gray had strangled her, there'd be more bruising on one side than the other." He held his hand up to the woman's throat to show them. "Even if he had used both hands, it would be a far wider spread. But this, this is a narrow line around the throat, obviously caused by a cloth of some kind, most likely a sheet. She strangled herself to frame him, but it didn't work, so she had to escalate." He stood and moved around the body, grabbing a paper towel on the way.

"You got any proof?" asked Greg. "We're gonna need more to call off a man hunt."

John had pushed open the door of the stall he had been staring at earlier and popped open the lid of the little metal feminine trash bin in the stall. "This should do it."

The paper towel wrapped between his hand and the item, John pulled a long metal rod, almost like a spoke in a bicycle wheel, out of the bin and held it up. Sure enough, there was a .22 caliber bullet, with a Conical Ball Cap, welded onto the end of it, and they were covered in blood. Greg stared in shock as John stepped over to hand it to Anderson.

"You'll be needing this," John told the forensic specialist. "Amazing where so-called professionals don't look for clues."

Anderson stared at the familiar Sherlock-ian sarcasm coming off of the man as he grabbed the tool in his gloved hands. Donovan's mouth was practically hanging open as she stood frozen in the corner of the room. Greg gaped in shock as John tossed the paper towel into the trash, folding his hands behind his back. When John had said it was like Sherlock's ghost was haunting me, he wasn't kidding. Was this what was happening to John all the time?

John seemed to come to himself in a few seconds' time. His hands unclasped themselves from behind his back, and his arms fell to his sides as he stared down at the woman in shock.

"John…" breathed Greg.

John slowly looked up at him, his haunted eyes looking back at him from the other side of the universe, it seemed like.

"How did you…" began Greg, letting his question trail off into the room.

John stared at him with his mouth hanging open for a long moment. "I don't know…" He looked back down at the body, running his hands through his hair. "I don't know…"


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Eleven

Greg followed John up the stairs of 221B, heading into the flat. "Here, sit."

John settled into the sofa, looking beyond exhausted.

"Oh, John, you're home," said Mrs. Hudson, coming out from the kitchen.

John paid her no mind; he only wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the floor.

"Get some rest tonight, okay?" Greg told him.

"Sure…" said John absently. "Thanks, Greg."

Greg nodded, looking at him in concern. "Can I get you anything?"

John just continued to stare at the floor.

"All right, I'll see you tomorrow," Greg told him, still getting no response. He then turned towards Mrs. Hudson, who was looking at John with concern. He tilted his head slightly towards the kitchen before heading that way. Once they were in the other room, Greg lowered his voice. "Look…have you noticed anything…odd about him lately?"

Mrs. Hudson's confused frown turned into a worried, understanding one. "I think Sherlock's death hit him hard. The violin, the experiments…"

Greg nodded. "Yeah, he told me."

"It's like a part of him is making up for the loss, trying to keep Sherlock alive," said Mrs. Hudson, her brows pulling together in worry. She leaned closer, lowering her voice even further. "I'm almost ready to call a doctor for him."

Greg shook his head. "No, no, no, I don't think we need to do that quite yet. I think he's just grieving. I mean, the two of them didn't have the most normal of friendships. Who says his grief has to be the same?"

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Yeah, he told all about what he's been like the last few weeks," Greg told her. "He's worried he's losing his mind. Usually, someone who **is** losing his mind isn't really aware it's happening. I think we just need to wait for the grief to pass. If his behavior doesn't change or gets worse, then we'll call a doctor." He glanced towards the sitting room, wondering. "There's just one thing that doesn't make sense…"

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

Greg looked back at her. "We just came back from a crime scene. I thought it might be good to run him a bit."

"Did it work?" she asked.

"It was starting to. But then…" Greg shook his head in amazement, "he solved it."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened. "He what?"

Greg nodded again. "He solved it. He took one look at the crime scene and knew there was something more. He spent all of two minutes examining the scene, and he had the answer. The observations he made, the way he flung his explanations at us, the deductions…" He shook his head. "Call me crazy, but…it was as though Sherlock was there, whispering them in his ear."

Mrs. Hudson stared up at him in shock for a moment before the sounds of a violin came from the other room. The two of them stared at each other a moment before slowly looking into the sitting room. John stood facing the window directly across from them, violin on his shoulder and bow moving over it. He was playing Bach's _Cello Suite No. 1_ as he swayed, caught up in the music.

Greg stared in shock. John had sold himself short; he didn't sound like a beginner, he sounded like a seasoned musician. Maybe not as good as Sherlock, but certainly good enough to play in public. John wasn't even looking at any music. Was what John said earlier tonight true? Was Sherlock's ghost really haunting him?

Greg looked back at Mrs. Hudson, who shared his confused and concerned stare.

* * *

John scribbled another note onto the music sheet before setting the pencil down and picking up the bow again. He played through the last few measures, getting to where he left off and continuing on. Now knowing the next few notes of the song, he set the bow down and filled the notes in on the sheet.

He set the pencil down as he observed the finished work with a smile, satisfied that it was finally done. He picked up the bow and started from the beginning of the piece. It was amazing how incredible it felt to hear a piece you had written, like an author seeing his book made into a movie.

As he finished, he became aware of someone in the room behind him.

"That was beautiful, John," Mrs. Hudson told him.

John turned towards her with a smile. "That's been stuck in my head for days."

"Well, it was time well spent," she told him, setting out a tray of tea. She took a seat on the sofa and grabbed a cup of tea for herself. "So, how's your time off going?"

John rolled his eyes as he set the violin down. "Dear Lord, must you all coddle me? I am fine!" He threw himself into the black leather armchair, gripping the armrests.

Mrs. Hudson only gazed at him calmly. "You know you really aren't…don't you?"

John stared down at the chair he had instinctually chosen to use as he came back to himself after that Sherlock-like outburst. "I know." His voice was quiet as he looked up at Mrs. Hudson. "I snapped at a patient."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "You what?"

"I snapped at a patient," John repeated, his voice rising. "He came in for a consult, and I told him to get out and stop wasting my time."

"Oh, John…" said Mrs. Hudson, wincing in sympathy.

"I couldn't help it," John said quickly. "It was a simple chest cold, if he would've just bothered to look at the signs. They're all so _stupid_!" He put his head in his hand, rubbing tiredly at it. "What's happening to me, Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson rose from her seat and knelt next to him, placing her hand on his knee. "I don't know, dearie."

John looked down at her, clearing his throat. "Boss didn't take it too well, but they know what I've been going through lately. They really warmed to my idea of taking a leave of absence. Said I'd have a job waiting whenever I was ready to come back."

"Well, that's something," Mrs. Hudson told him and gave him a pat to the knee. "Make the most of your time off. Don't overdo it."

John nodded as Mrs. Hudson stood and left the room. He watched her go for a moment before looking down at the chair and placing his hand back on the rest.

 _This really is quite comfortable,_ he thought.

He looked around the flat, eager for something to occupy his mind now that the song was composed. But there was nothing; no experiments left, no books he hadn't read yet, no cases, no songs to compose. Imagine that! Even the violin had exhausted its entertainment value. All he had to look forward to was his daily afternoon visit from his friends. Tonight was Molly's turn.

 _That's_ hours _from now,_ he thought. _What am I supposed to do till then?_

As the starting-to-be-familiar restlessness and boredom rushed through his entire body, he began to freak out yet again. Was this really the way his grief for Sherlock was making itself known? It just didn't feel like it. He couldn't really explain it, but he just _knew_ that something else—something deeper—was going on here. But what?

Something beeped on the table, and John jumped to his feet, hurrying over to the open laptop. Pulling up the open internet window, he spotted a new message posted on the "The Science of Deduction" website.

 _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 _On Monday, my home was broken into and the safe I keep in my basement was emptied. The police have investigated this whole week, but have not been able to figure out how the thieves got in. My home is monitored by an alarm system and surveillance cameras. There was never any breach in the alarm, nor was it tampered with. The cameras show nothing out of the ordinary; none of them were tampered with, apart from the basement camera. It was disabled, but the only way into the basement is the stairs to the ground floor, and the camera outside that door showed nothing all night long._

 _Could you please take a look at the case and help me?_

 _Thank you,_

 _Miranda Kirlan_

John's eyes lit up. _Oh, yes! Finally!_

He whipped his dressing gown off, flinging it down onto Sherlock's armchair. He rushed to the door, pulling the Belstaff off the back of it and pulling it on. He snatched the scarf and rushed out the door, thundering down the stairs as he looped the scarf around his neck and tied it.

"John?" he heard Mrs. Hudson ask behind him.

"Will be back later, Mrs. Hudson," John briskly told her. "The game is on!" He swept out of the house and towards the street. "Taxi!"

A cab pulled up to the curb, and John flung open the back door.

"526 Lexington," John told him, climbing inside. He pulled out his mobile, looking up building and construction history for the area he was headed for. He got lost in his phone as they rode on.

"526 Lexington," the cabbie said as he stopped the cab.

John tossed a note up into the front seat as he darted out of the cab, heading towards the house in front of him. He stepped up to the door and rang the buzzer, waiting for a moment before a woman came and opened it.

"Yes?" she asked, the door open just enough to peer out.

"I'm here for your case, Ms. Kirlan," John told her.

Miranda Kirlan frowned. "My case?"

"You did email, yes?" said John.

The woman's frown lessened slightly—just slightly—as she shifted on her feet. "I was expecting Sherlock Holmes."

"He's dead," said John shortly. "I'll be taking it from here."

The woman pulled the door open wider as her eyes widened. "Dead?"

"I'm surprised you didn't see," said John. "It was all over the papers."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Watson," he answered. "Mr. Holmes' companion. Now, where is the safe?"

Miranda stared at him in shock. "Erm…downstairs…"

"If I may take a look," stated John, waiting until she had stepped aside before stepping into the house.

"Right through here," said Miranda once she had closed the front door.

She led him through the hallway to a door that opened onto a set of stairs. The two of them headed down to the basement, where a safe sat in the center of the basement.

John approached the safe, circling around it with his hands placed together in a prayer position in front of his mouth. He stopped once he had completed the 360° turn and looked up at Miranda. "Well…start from the beginning."

* * *

Molly unlocked the front door of 221 Baker Street, heading up the stairs to the flat. Pushing open the door, she was greeted with the sight of an empty sitting room.

"John?" she called as she took her scarf and coat off, laying them on the sofa. She looked towards the kitchen. "John?"

Molly stepped through the kitchen and down the hall, starting to get unnerved by the absolute silence. She approached Sherlock's room, having found John holed up in there more than once in the past week. "John, you in here?"

The bedroom was as empty as the sitting room and kitchen.

Molly moved back into the hall, knocking quickly on the closed bathroom door. "John? John, if you're in there, say something or I'm coming in."

After no response, Molly opened the door; the bathroom was empty as well.

Heart beginning to hammer in her chest, she turned and ran for the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!"

Molly raced up the stairs towards John's room, flinging open the door. It was empty, too.

"Molly?"

At Mrs. Hudson's faint voice, Molly raced back down the two flights of stairs, finding the landlady at the foot of them.

"Oh, thank God," said Mrs. Hudson, worry written all over her face. "I've been trying to reach someone—"

"Where's John?" Molly asked.

"He took off about an hour ago," Mrs. Hudson told her. "Said he'd be back, but…" she shook her head, "I think someone needs to find him. The way he was acting…"

"We'll find him," Molly assured her before turning and hurrying back up the stairs to the flat. She pulled her mobile out of her coat, seeing that she had left it on silent from when she had been working. And there were five missed calls from Mrs. Hudson.

Molly dialed a number and waited.

" _Hello?"_ Greg answered.

"It's John," Molly told him. "He's gone."

" _What?"_ Greg exclaimed.

"Mrs. Hudson said he left an hour ago," Molly explained. "She's worried about him."

" _All right, stay at Baker Street,"_ Greg told her. _"I'll start a search. Try his phone."_

"Okay," Molly responded.

* * *

Greg hung up, looking down at his mobile and spotting the six missed calls from Mrs. Hudson. _Why didn't I check my phone when I got back to the office?_

He got to his feet, striding towards his door to open it when it opened, revealing Donovan in the doorway. "Donovan, get—"

"Boss, there's—" Donovan began at the same time.

They both stopped, and Greg jumped right in.

"Set up a search team," Greg told her. "John Watson has—"

"He's at 526 Lexington," Donovan interrupted.

Greg froze and stared at her. "He's what?"

"Miranda Kirlan just called about a man that showed up at her home in response to an email she had posted on Sherlock's website," Donovan explained. "He started to look into her case, but now, he's starting to make her uneasy." She paused and made sure she held his gaze. "She said his name is Dr. Watson."

Greg immediately headed past her as she kept pace. "What was the address?"

"526 Lexington," Donovan answered. "Need a unit to ride along?"

"No, no," Greg told her. "It's probably best that I handle this myself."

"All right," she said as they reached the lift. "Good luck, boss." She then headed back to her desk.

Greg got into the lift and headed down to the lobby, getting into his car and hurrying over to the woman's house. When he knocked on the front door, a wide-eyed woman with bunched brows answered the door.

Greg held up his identification for her. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Thank God," Miranda breathed out, opening the door further for him. "He seemed okay at first, but after he looked around the basement for a while, he started…I don't even know what. He turned almost manic and started yelling about a tunnel and Christmas. I asked him to leave, but he wouldn't budge."

"It's okay," Greg assured her as they halted at the basement door. "Dr. Watson **was** Sherlock Holmes' friend. He's been going through a hard time lately. I'll get through to him."

"Thank you," Miranda told him, opening the basement door. The sounds of shoes scraping over concrete and flurried movement came up from the basement. "I don't want to go down there."

"That's all right," Greg told her. "I'll take care of it." He stepped through the door and headed down the stairs, turning the corner to look at the rest of the room.

A figure was stooped in the corner of the room, struggling to get rid of a section of the floor. It appeared to be a false floor, and the figure had broken away about a third of it. Despite the fact that Greg _knew_ this was John, the image of the figure scrambling over a crime scene in his Belstaff coat was so familiar that the name just slipped out.

"Sherlock?" Greg asked.

Before he could correct himself though, the figure—surprisingly—responded to the name.

John looked up from his work, an excited gleam in his eyes. "Lestrade, excellent." He straightened to his feet. "You can call your team in now." He gestured to the ruined patch of floor. "The burglars gained access through this tunnel. No one thought to look at the history of the house."

Greg stepped forward and looked down at the hole John had made. Sure enough, it dropped down into a dirt tunnel.

He looked up at the doctor. "John."

"This whole area was used as a tea smuggling ring back in the 1700s," John went on, speaking rapidly. "The original property was torn down, but the tunnel was never filled in."

"John—" Greg tried again in a slightly louder tone.

"I believe you will find the thieves at the Marriott Hotel," John went on, off in his own world. "I'm sure even **you** can take it from here—"

Greg grabbed hold of John's shoulders and jolted him a little. "John!"

John's words fled him as he stared in shock at Greg for a moment. Greg could pinpoint almost the exact moment when the man came back to himself. The manic excitement bled away from his eyes as he blinked a few times, his tense muscles relaxing a bit.

John frowned slightly at Greg before looking around the room. "What…" He looked back at him. "Greg?"

"That's it, John," Greg said softly, easing his hands away from him.

John's eyes darted around the room, beginning to hyperventilate. "How did I get here? What happened?"

"It's okay, John," Greg told him.

John's eyes widened as it all seemingly came back to him. "Oh, God…" His breathing quickened even more. "Oh, my God. What did I do?" His eyes darted down to the scarf and Belstaff he was wearing. "Oh, my God…" He started to waver on his feet as his gasps grew high-pitched and shallow.

"Hey, hey," said Greg, helping John over to sit on the stairs and leaning his upper body down so John's head was between his knees. "Slow, deep breaths."

John took a few labored breaths before they evened out. He sat up and looked up at Greg with tortured eyes. "What's happening to me? Am I…am I losing my mind?"

Greg looked at him sadly. "I don't know, John." He watched him another moment before holding out his hand. "Let's just get you home."

John shakily took his hand and let Greg help him to his feet. Together, they trudged up the basement stairs.

* * *

Mycroft glanced up as his office door opened to reveal his assistant.

"Sir, there's a message for you from the Council," Anthea told him.

Mycroft nodded at her. "Thank you, Anthea." He closed the portfolio he had been looking through. "Make sure I'm not disturbed."

"Yes, sir," Anthea said before she closed his office door as she left.

Mycroft turned in his chair, moving a hidden panel in the wall to reveal a safe. Punching in the code and then leaning forward for the optical recognition scan, he opened the safe. Inside was a small pad, just like the one he had handed to Sherlock when his parents had sent him a message. Mycroft pulled it out and pressed his thumb to the front of it. The pad switched on as it read his thumbprint and opened the main screen. A message was flashing on the screen, labeled "URGENT."

The message began as they all did: "To Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Earth's ambassador to Vulcan." But it quickly became apparent that this was anything but a normal communication. It was from the _T'Lana Hamac_ **(A/N: I completely made up the name from examples of Vulcan ship names. Sorry if it's not very good)** , the vessel meant to rendezvous with the probe carrying Sherlock back to Vulcan.

Mycroft's eyes trailed over the screen, taking in the information as his jaw began to drop in genuine shock. "Oh, my God…"

* * *

 **Ooh...What news did Mycroft get?**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Twelve

 **Sorry about the wait, guys. Finals coming up.**

 **BTW, this next week is finals, so it may be a little bit for the next chapter, but I am almost done with it, so who knows.**

* * *

Greg helped John get the Belstaff off and hung it up on the back of the door. Greg stared at it for a moment, amazed that in the twenty-eight days since Sherlock's death, it was still hanging in its usual place. In fact, nothing in the flat had changed since Sherlock's death—except, of course, for Sherlock's absence.

Greg turned to see John holding the scarf he had been wearing in his hands, staring down at it as he sat in Sherlock's chair. Greg looked over at Molly, who was busy making tea in the kitchen. He then walked over and sat in John's armchair, watching him for a moment.

"When was the last time you saw your therapist?" Greg asked.

John was silent a moment. "A few days after Sherlock's death." He chuckled almost hysterically. "Guess I should start going again, huh?" He glanced up at Greg, and his eyes froze, taking in the view. He frowned and glanced down at the seat he was in. He sighed and hung his head at the realization of which chair he had picked.

Molly walked in with a cup of tea, which she placed on the small table next to John. She then reached into her pocket and pulled a single pill in its individual packaging out. "This is a mild sedative. I want you to take it and get some rest."

John nodded as he set the scarf aside and accepted the pill. Popping it out of its foil pouch, he tossed it into his mouth and chased it down with some tea. Before long, he could _finally_ feel that restless energy, that endlessly calculating mind start to slow down.

"Come on," said Greg, standing. "Let's get you upstairs before you pass out on me."

John chuckled quietly, feeling the fuzziness of sleep start to encroach on him. He pushed himself to his feet and shuffled towards the stairs outside the flat door, Greg one step behind him should he fall. The march up the stairs got slower and slower until Greg finally had to catch John at the top.

"Whoa!" Greg exclaimed, hands just under John's arms as John's legs trembled.

"'M so tired…" John mumbled as he shuffled his feet forward some more.

"I know," Greg told him. "Almost there, mate."

Greg helped him the last few feet into his room and to his bed. Sitting him on the edge of it, Greg pulled John's shoes off and then put him under the covers.

"There you go," said Greg. "Get some rest."

"Why can't he just leave me alone?" John muttered as he weakly tried to make himself comfortable. His eyes were slipping closed. "Why can't he just leave?"

Greg paused for a moment before leaning down towards John a little. "John…is Sherlock here now?"

John's eyes opened again and looked up at him, pausing a moment before giving his chilling answer. "Yes."

Greg stared at him, goose-bumps breaking out all over his skin.

John's head fell to the side as his eyes closed. "He's always here…"

Greg straightened up, staring at John before glancing around the room. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he stood frozen in the silent room. Was that a whisper he heard?

Greg shook himself, dispersing the eerie feeling. He was just psyching himself up. There was no ghost here, no phantom haunting their every step. Greg moved towards the door, taking one last look at John before he stepped out, the doubt creeping back in.

 _Or is there?_

* * *

Molly handed the cup of tea to Mrs. Hudson. "There you go."

"Thank you," Mrs. Hudson said as Molly took a seat next to her on the sofa.

Greg took a sip of his own tea from his seat in a dining chair across the coffee table. The three of them sat in silence for a while, each debating the fate of their sleeping friend in the next room.

"So…" Greg began, "should we call John's therapist?"

"Does he really need one?" asked Molly. "I mean, he's stressed and still grieving, but—"

"You didn't see him, Molly," said Greg. "It was like Sherlock had possessed him. He didn't even remember what had happened at first."

"He needs help, love," Mrs. Hudson told her.

"Yeah, but how much help?" asked Molly. "I mean, I've only seen him playing the violin and messing around with a couple of experiments, maybe one outburst. But from what you've told me, it sounds like he needs a psychiatric hospital."

"I would advise against that."

The three of them looked up to see Mycroft in the doorway.

"It would only make matters worse," finished Mycroft.

"What do you mean?" asked Greg.

"Why don't you 'fill me in' on what has happened in the last four weeks?" said Mycroft as he stepped forward and took the seat next to Greg.

"Erm…well…" began Greg, "it started out very simply. John began playing with the violin and taking on a few Sherlock-like mannerisms and getting bored easily. But last week, he told me that he was worried he was losing his mind; he hadn't slept in days, he was playing the violin like he'd been doing it for months, he was craving cigarettes. He had even worn Sherlock's scarf without realizing it _and_ solved a case by using Sherlock's methods. So, we decided to come see him regularly to make sure he was doing okay.

"Then he went missing this afternoon. John had read a post this woman sent to Sherlock's website and went to solve the case. When I showed up, I found John in the basement, digging away at a hidden tunnel. Sure, he had solved it, but…" Greg sighed. "He was wearing Sherlock's coat and scarf, he was rattling off how he had solved the case, he called me Lestrade—only Sherlock ever called me that—and he responded when I accidentally called him Sherlock. When I finally broke through to him, he didn't know where he was and what was going on, at least not at first."

Greg gave Mycroft a hard look. "So, you tell me: why aren't we calling a psychiatrist? Or—" he chuckled a little, "an exorcist. 'Cause if I didn't know any better, I'd say Sherlock was haunting him." He gave a somber laugh as he glanced at the two women. Then, he looked back at Mycroft.

Mycroft was looking at Greg with a humorless face, which Greg would expect from the man, but it was the air of satisfaction in his eyes that misled him; sort of a "I know something you don't know" feeling.

Mycroft sustained the feeling for a moment before speaking. "He may very well be."

Greg stared at him, unsure if he had heard correctly or not. "Say again?"

* * *

John came back to consciousness very slowly, the sedative remaining in his system just enough to keep his mind quiet but not asleep. After almost a month of a restless, never-ending, deducing-every-little-object-in-sight brain, it was such a relief to feel just himself in there. Because that was what he had, at some point, come to refer to this strange mental invader as: Sherlock. He didn't know how, he didn't even know what, but he knew it was Sherlock.

John opened his eyes and stretched out his legs, regretting falling asleep in his jeans.

"John."

John glanced down the bed to see Greg sitting in a chair near the foot of it. "Greg."

Greg smiled at the name John had used. "Well, good to know who I'm dealing with."

John laughed as he reached his hand up and rubbed at his eyes. "Yeah, good to know."

"How you feeling?" the inspector asked.

"Alone," John told him. "For now."

"How would you like to make it permanent?"

John frowned as he sat up a little to see Mycroft sitting on the other side of the room. "Mycroft?" He glared at the government official. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?" He immediately groaned and flopped back onto the bed. "And there he is!" He gave a bitter chuckle. "Why can't he just leave me alone?"

"With my help, he can," said Mycroft.

John glanced over at him, frowning. "Wait, you don't think I'm crazy?"

"I do not," replied Mycroft.

John pulled himself up against the headboard, intrigued. "How so?"

Mycroft took a breath before starting. "There is a Vulcan tradition that is performed upon death. It is the transfer of the katra. When a Vulcan senses their death is near, they will mind-meld with a trained individual—usually another Vulcan—and upon death, their katra—or soul, as we would refer to it—is transferred to that individual.

"That person is then taken to Mount Seleya on Vulcan, along with the deceased Vulcan, where the body is interred and the katra placed in a katric ark in the Hall of Ancient Thought for the storage of that Vulcan's knowledge and wisdom. The keeper of the katra is filled with a sense of urgency and knowledge to get to Mount Seleya."

John deflated a little at that news. He had started to think that maybe this katra business was what had been going on with him the past month, but the only time he had heard of this Mount Seleya had been when Mycroft had mentioned it weeks ago. He hadn't felt any of this urgency or knowledge Mycroft spoke of.

Mycroft paused a moment. "Then again…there are occasions—usually when the keeper is neither prepared nor Vulcan—when they feel no such thing."

John perked up at that, staring hard at Mycroft.

Mycroft stared right back at him. "The invading mind blends with the host almost seamlessly, 'almost' being the keyword. Before long, the foreign mind begins to imprint upon the keeper, usually coming forth in bursts of the Vulcan's personality and behavior."

"Wait a minute," John interrupted, pulling the covers from his legs and pulling himself to the edge of the bed. "So…I've got Sherlock's soul in my head?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered.

John stared at him in growing anger. "And you knew about this?"

"I did not," Mycroft replied.

"But you knew it _could_ happen," John accused.

Mycroft hesitated. "I did stop by after the funeral—"

"Oh, bollucks!" John erupted, springing to his feet. "A few vague questions about if I had gotten any strange urges? Did you really expect me to understand?" He had gotten right into Mycroft's face. "You knew that I had no idea Sherlock had planned to fake his death, so you knew Sherlock wouldn't have prepared me, which means I would have had no idea what was going on with me!" He spun away from him, pacing next to the bed.

After a brief moment, Mycroft spoke again. "I am sorry, John."

John froze in his pacing and whipped his head towards Mycroft, his eyes narrowed at him. "Oh, that's _really_ helpful, Mycroft. Problem solved, bravo!" He then stopped and closed his eyes before looking over at Greg. "He's always got to have the last word, doesn't he?"

Greg smirked. "Always."

John chuckled slightly and then moved his gaze over to Mycroft. "Why? Why not tell us?"

"I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up," Mycroft told them. "There was also the possibility of a 'self-fulfilling prophecy,' if you will."

John frowned in incredulity. "Really?" He angrily shook his head.

"What?" asked Greg in confusion.

John looked at him. "He didn't want anyone to subconsciously emulate Sherlock once they'd been told. Like a hypochondriac thinking they've got E. coli after watching a news article about it."

Greg looked over at Mycroft, indignant. "Really?"

"Stranger things have happened," Mycroft brushed off.

John glared at Mycroft for a moment. "I'm still pissed off with you."

"Understandable," Mycroft replied.

"What do we do now?" asked John.

"Now, we reunite Sherlock with his katra," stated Mycroft.

Greg frowned over at Mycroft in confusion as John did the same.

"I thought his katra went into the katriark," said John.

"Katric ark," Mycroft corrected. "And, normally, yes."

John narrowed his eyes at him, sensing the **real** reason Mycroft was there. "What's happened?"

"I received word this evening from the _T'Lana Hamac_ , the Vulcan ship that rendezvoused with the probe carrying Sherlock's remains," Mycroft explained. "Apparently, an…energy field of some kind—something they had never encountered before—approached the probe before they could reach it. The energy enveloped the probe for several minutes before finally moving on.

"Scans of the probe revealed no structural damage or harmful conditions, so they boarded it." Mycroft hesitated a moment. "The coffin was exactly where it should have been, but…"

"But what?" asked Greg, leaning forward in his seat.

"They opened the coffin," said Mycroft slowly, making sure he had their attention, "and Sherlock was alive."

Stunned silence greeted that statement.

 _Alive?_ John thought. _How is that possible?_

He was brought back to the day Mycroft had told him about the "faked death" plan. He had gotten a brief glimpse of hope then, too, before Mycroft had dashed it all to pieces.

"You're certain?" asked John, his voice shaking.

"Absolutely," replied Mycroft. "They performed many medical tests and are positive that, somehow, this energy resurrected him."

The dam that had been walled up the past month finally broke. John didn't know if he just hadn't allowed himself to grieve yet or if Sherlock's katra was somehow keeping the grief at bay, but he just hadn't really let himself feel it. It was just this gray cloud hanging over him that just completely refused to rain, almost as though Sherlock's soul had been screaming "I'm right here!" in his head this whole time.

John frowned. "Wait, does that mean he's got his katra back, 'cause it sure doesn't feel like it."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly in interest. "You're able to feel him? Even now?"

John's frown deepened in confusion. "Of course. I mean, I never knew **what** it was until now, but…" He took in Mycroft's amazed expression. "That's not normal, is it?"

"No, it's not," Mycroft told him. "In fact, it's very rare. Usually, the katra is simply a passenger, like a fly that has landed on your shoulder. But there are occasions such as this where the keeper is always aware of the other's soul, usually due to a close bond."

"How aware is he?" Greg asked John.

John looked over at him. "How do you mean?"

"Is he just there and only you know it?" asked Greg. "Or is he giving input, you know, talking to you?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," John told him. "He's just…there." He looked at Mycroft. "So, Sherlock is…"

"An empty slate," Mycroft replied. He gave a miniscule smirk. "A transport without a mind."

"Now, that's ironic," muttered Greg.

"So, they're gonna bring Sherlock back here?" asked John.

"The refusion of the katra is a rare ritual," Mycroft explained. "Hasn't been performed for a millennium and must be performed on Mount Seleya by a Vulcan priest or priestess. I suggest you pack your bags."

"Wait, so, we're going to Vulcan?" asked Greg.

"Technically, the invitation was for John—" began Mycroft.

"Oh, no way am I staying behind," Greg told him, crossing his arms.

Mycroft stared at him a moment. "Very well."

A knock came at the door, and it swung open slightly.

Molly poked her head in. "Mind if we interrupt?"

"Not at all," said John.

Molly opened the door further and let herself and Mrs. Hudson in.

"Mycroft filled us in on what's happened," said Molly. "How are you feeling?"

"Better now that we can save Sherlock," muttered John.

"Sorry, what?" asked Molly.

"Erm, Mycroft hadn't told us Sherlock was alive earlier," Greg interrupted.

Molly's eyes widened in shock. "He's what?"

"What?" asked Mrs. Hudson at the same time.

"Something about an energy bringing him back to life on the probe," Greg explained. "Now, we've gotta go put the soul in John's head back into his body."

"Will…will that work?" asked Molly.

John gestured at Mycroft. "He says it will."

"I'm coming," said Molly firmly.

"We're going into space, Molly," John told her.

"I know," said Molly. "I'm coming."

Mycroft sighed and then glanced at Mrs. Hudson. "And are you coming as well?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine right here," Mrs. Hudson told them. She then pointed her finger sternly at each of them. "But I expect regular updates once a week."

John smiled. "Yes, ma'am." He looked at Mycroft. "So, launching another probe?"

"It would come across as a bit suspicious to launch two deep space probes within a month of each other," said Mycroft. "The Vulcans have stored a small ship about an hour from here in the case of an emergency."

Greg's brows rose. "I thought you said Earth's radar would detect a ship, which is why you hid Sherlock on that probe."

"Yes, it will be detected," agreed Mycroft.

"'Cause that's not suspicious at all," muttered John.

"It is a necessary risk," said Mycroft.

"And the Vulcans don't have any problem with this?" asked John.

Mycroft gave him a knowing, slightly amused look. "Where do you think the first sightings of UFOs came from?" He rose from his chair, straightening his waistcoat. "I shall make the arrangements with your employers. A car will be at your places of residence within the hour." He gave a small smile. "Pack for a London summer." He then stepped out the bedroom door and down the stairs.

John looked round at the others. "Well, then…See you all in a couple hours."

Molly, Greg and Mrs. Hudson left as John got his suitcase and began packing.

Twenty minutes later, and John was carrying his bag down to the first floor to wait for his ride. As he sat on the sofa, he looked around the room, this room that had been void of Sherlock for a month. The next time he set foot in this room, it would be with his best friend. But how far away was that?

How far away was Vulcan? How fast could these ships travel? Just because they had figured it out and had a plan didn't mean he was out of the woods yet. He would still have to put up with Sherlock's personality for another…however long.

 _How to entertain Sherlock in an enclosed space for probably weeks on end…_

John stood and began packing up the violin into its case with care, stuffing blank and printed sheet music into an outside pocket. He then went about picking books off of the shelf, both to read for entertainment and to study. He put these books on the sofa, hurrying up to his room for another bag. Once the books were packed, he then stared at his laptop, wondering.

 _Oh, just go ahead and take it._

John smiled at the impatient thought flitting through his mind. Before this evening, he would have just considered it a stray thought. But now, he knew where it had come from. That had been Sherlock's thought. He probably should be more annoyed with the situation than he was, but found that it was a comfort to be the one Sherlock—however inadvertently—had chosen to keep him safe.

John grabbed his laptop and put it in with the books. As he zipped the bag up, Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room.

"The car is here," she said.

"Thanks, Mrs. H," John told her, staring at her for a moment.

"Oh, John," said Mrs. Hudson, stepping forward and enveloping him in her arms. "You be safe."

John hugged her back. "I will." He then pulled away and smiled at her before grabbing his bags and heading for the door.

"Sherlock."

John stopped and looked back at her.

"Bring them back home," said Mrs. Hudson.

John nodded once, stiffly, before he stopped and realized what had happened. Mrs. Hudson smiled as John laughed a little and went out the door.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Thirteen

"You're bringing all that?" Molly asked as she approached with her suitcase.

John glanced at his two bags and violin case. "Well, **I'm** traveling with Sherlock, so…"

Molly laughed. "True."

John glanced around at the remote government building. "So, this is where England has been hiding Area 51."

"Doesn't look like much, does it?" said Molly, looking up at the three-story, plain white building.

"That's probably the idea," said Greg as he opened the lobby door and stepped out. He looked down at the three cases on the pavement next to John. "Sherlock bored?"

John chuckled. "That's the idea."

Greg grabbed one of the suitcases as John lifted the violin case and the second suitcase, and the three of them headed into the building, Greg grabbing his own bag with his other hand.

A man in a suit was waiting at the other end of the lobby. "Right this way, lady and gentlemen." He turned and led them to the lifts, using his keycard to call it.

Once all three were inside, the man pressed the button labeled "-3."

John smiled slightly at the memory of Baskerville and everything that had happened there. It had been a case they had taken between John finding out Sherlock was an alien and the whole nasty business with Moriarty. They had gone to Dartmoor to investigate the army base, where Sherlock then engaged in testing his theory by drugging John and playing with the lights to disorient him.

 _Highly unlikely to happen here, John. Not to worry._

John laughed as that thought floated through his head. If he tried hard enough, he could hear Sherlock's voice in it.

"What?" asked Greg.

John glanced at him with an amused smile. "Nothing. Just thinking."

Greg frowned a moment and then looked away as the lift doors opened. The man in the suit led them out and through the halls before stopping in front of what looked like a bank vault. Two guards stood on either side of it.

The man in the suit placed his thumb on a scanner as another one scanned his eye. "Shatner, 78341."

The door chimed, and Shatner stepped back as the door swung open. In front of them was a wide, sloped hallway that led down to another level. The four of them headed down the ramp and emerged into a gigantic room.

Molly froze, her eyes widening in shock as her mouth fell open.

Greg stopped in his tracks, his gaze riveted up at the room.

John's jaw dropped as his eyes took in what was in the room.

"Holy…" Greg breathed out in a whisper.

The room was the height of a six-story warehouse the size of Parliament, and in the very center was a spaceship. It was a sleek vessel with sharp, aerodynamic angles and was a deep red—almost a burgundy. It was almost reminiscent of an hourglass: a narrow portion in the middle with a top that pointed out in three directions—each of the three arms ending in what almost looked like propulsion units of some kind—and a bottom that branched out into three smaller landing braces. A lit-up ramp extended between two of the legs, leading up to a bright doorway. It was nothing like the flying saucers you saw in the tabloids.

And it was four stories tall.

"Welcome to MI-7."

John glanced down to see Mycroft approaching them.

Mycroft stepped up and gestured towards the ship. "May I present the _T'Plana-Hath_."

 **(Yes, this is the Vulcan ship from First Contact with Zefram Cochrane.)**

John stepped forward next to Mycroft. "MI-7, eh?"

"Only sixteen humans know of its existence, and they are all in this room," Mycroft told him.

"Well, don't I feel special," John muttered, stepping towards the ship. "Listen, erm…how long will this trip take?"

"Twenty-four days until we rendezvous with the _T'Lana Hamac_ and another twenty-four until we reach Vulcan," Mycroft replied, walking next to John.

"About a month and a half," John muttered. "Fantastic."

"Yes," said Mycroft. "Good thing you brought those books."

"Good thing," agreed John, knowing exactly how Mycroft had deduced that. "When do we launch?"

"One hour," Mycroft replied as they reached the ramp. He glanced back to see Molly and Greg a few steps behind them. "The ship has plenty of stores for the journey, an…admittedly complex laundering system, capabilities for—"

"Hold on, Mycroft," said John, pausing in front of the ramp and narrowing his eyes at a portion of the ship on one of the hanging arms above them. "You might want to get that fixed first."

Mycroft frowned and moved so he could see what John was looking at.

"The nacelle is out of alignment," John told him.

Mycroft's jaw clenched as he turned towards a white-coated man. "Dr. Kelley, I trust you'll have this fixed immediately?"

"Yes, sir," the man told him, nodding at John. "Thank you for pointing it out."

John nodded back as the man moved away. "Although, it wasn't technically me…" He stepped up onto the ramp and into the ship.

Mycroft followed along with Greg and Molly. "Living quarters are—"

John was already heading down a corridor on the right. It just felt so familiar to him. _This must have been the ship that brought Sherlock here._

Greg and Molly, meanwhile, were gazing in wide-eyed amazement at the white corridors as they followed John. After another two turns, they came to a stop at a grouping of five doors.

Mycroft stepped up to one on the left. "Dr. Hooper, your quarters." He gestured to the door.

Molly stepped towards it, looking for some kind of handle or a panel, when it suddenly slid open like one of the automatic doors on the lobby at St. Bart's. "Oh!" She laughed a little as she stepped inside.

"Inspector," said Mycroft as he gestured to the door next to it.

Greg approached his quarters, watching the door open.

"John," said Mycroft, pointing to one on the right. "Make yourselves at home and familiarize yourselves with the ship. If you'd be interested, I can arrange for you to be on the bridge at launch."

"Oh, definitely," said John. "Sounds exciting."

"Very well," Mycroft replied, glancing at his watch. "I will see you again in forty-nine minutes." With that, he headed back down the corridor.

John approached his door as Molly and Greg disappeared into their own rooms. The door slid open, and John stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. It was a frankly sparse room, occupied only by a table and two chairs, a bed, and what appeared to be a bathroom area behind a door in the corner. It wasn't much, but for two months, it would do.

John placed his suitcase on the bed and set the violin case next to it. He then went back to the door to retrieve the bag Greg had carried. This one, he placed next to the table, opening it to pull his laptop out and set it on the table. He then immediately turned to hurry for the door, that unquenchable curiosity demanding he investigate the ship. Once the door slid open, he found Molly approaching it.

Molly stopped in the middle of the hall. "Oh, I was just coming to see if you'd like to see the rest of the ship with me."

"Absolutely," John replied. "I don't think I can sit still for forty-five minutes."

Molly laughed as the door to Greg's room opened.

"We're going to see the rest of the ship," John abruptly told him. "Come on." He then immediately headed past them down the hall.

Greg and Molly exchanged a smile as Greg muttered. "Right away, your detective-ness."

That sent Molly into a fit of laughter, which caused John to stop and turn back.

"What?" asked John.

"Oh, nothing," laughed Molly as she calmed down and stepped past him.

John frowned as he watched her go and then looked at Greg as the man stepped up next to him. "I did something Sherlock-like, didn't I?"

Greg clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, you did, mate." He followed after Molly.

The three of them spent the next half hour exploring the ship, finding a dining area, library (although, it was all electronic), recreation area, a common room (much like a lounge) and several standard areas of the ship (engineering, medical facility, the brig). And just before they entered each room, John was able to name them. Thanks to Sherlock, he was almost as knowledgeable about the ship's layout as Mycroft was.

Greg glanced at his watch. "They're launching in ten minutes. Reckon we should head back."

"Probably," Molly agreed. "It's not every day you get to see a spaceship in action, let alone one you're on."

John suddenly burst into laughter, a smile on his face.

Greg watched him a moment, smiling. "What?"

John let out a sigh as he shook his head. "Sherlock…the things we get into because of him."

Greg laughed as the three of them headed back to the corridor outside their quarters. It was only a moment before Mycroft rounded the corner.

"If you will follow me," he stated, turning back around to lead them towards the bridge.

John stepped up next to Mycroft. "They did realign the nacelle, yes?"

"Of course," said Mycroft as they walked.

"Right," said John, looking up at him. "What is a nacelle?"

Mycroft glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "You don't already know?"

"Well, it's not like Sherlock's mind is a book I can open and find out, now, is it?" John told him. "Impulses, remember? Personality quirks, behavioral glitches…"

"The nacelles provide our propulsion," Mycroft informed him. "Specifically, the warp drive."

"Right, warp," said Greg. "What is that?"

"The ability of a starship to travel faster than light," Mycroft replied. "It's a relatively new concept."

"Right, you said something about Warp 4," John supplied.

"There are five categories of engine speed," Mycroft continued as they stepped up to a door marked "Turbolift," and it slid open. "Impulse, Warp 1, Warp 2, Warp 3 and Warp 4."

They stepped inside, and Mycroft pressed a button.

"Bridge," said Mycroft, releasing the button and turning to them. "Impulse reaches speeds of 74,350 kilometers per second, whereas Warp 4 allows us to travel one light year in three days."

"Wow," said Molly. "That's amazing."

"Not as amazing as it will be in a hundred years, I'm sure," said Mycroft. "I have no doubt that one day, starships will be capable of Warp 10."

The door of the lift slid open onto what had to be the bridge. The walls were practically lined with monitors and consoles. Two consoles jutted up from the floor at what must have been the front of the bridge, and a few feet behind them sat a large chair, almost in the center of the room. At the front of the bridge was a large view screen that took up the whole wall, and it was showing the large laboratory the ship was sitting in. Five people were meandering around the room, double-checking settings and various other parameters as they prepared for liftoff.

"My God…" said Greg as Mycroft stepped onto the bridge.

"Dr. Koenig," called Mycroft as John, Greg and Molly stepped out of the lift.

A man in a jumpsuit reminiscent of an astronaut's turned towards him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"I trust everything is under way?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, sir," said Koenig. "Right on schedule."

"Excellent," said Mycroft before turning towards the three of them and motioning to some empty consoles at the back of the bridge. "Take a seat."

John sat in one of the seats bolted to the floor as Greg and Molly sat on either side of him. He was looking all over his seat and around him but not finding what he was looking for.

"John?" Mycroft asked, noticing the doctor's searching.

"Shouldn't there be restraints?" asked John. "Or maybe a seatbelt, at least?"

"Oh, no need," Mycroft told him.

"Really?" asked John skeptically.

"This is a starship, John, not _Apollo 13_ ," Mycroft replied. He then moved over to the large chair in the middle of the room, obviously meant to be the captain's chair. "Five minutes, everyone. I want a last run-through of the systems."

The five jump-suited people in the room each moved to a console at his words: two to the two consoles in front, one to a console on the left, one to a console on the right, and one to the console next to the three civilians. Mycroft sat down in the captain's chair, watching the progress in the lab through the view screen.

"Can you believe this?" said Molly excitedly. "We're actually on a spaceship! I mean, every kid thinks astronauts are cool, but how many of them actually make it onto a mission into space? We're going to be the first humans to set food onto another planet! Well, there _was_ Sherlock's father—"

"Oh, Molly, please do stop," John gritted out in annoyance. He then grimaced. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Molly assured him. "I'm used to it."

"Yeah, from Sherlock, not me," John told her.

"Well, same difference right now, yes?" Molly pointed out.

John still didn't look any more comfortable about it.

"Look," said Molly as she turned a little more towards him, "don't fight it."

John frowned in confusion.

"This katra business," Molly went on. "It's a fusion of your mind and Sherlock's, yes?"

John nodded.

"Well, how does Sherlock react when someone starts butting heads with him?" Molly asked.

John's eyes trailed over to the floor as he thought back to every heated interaction between Sherlock and someone who argued with or hated him: Donovan, Anderson, Sebastian Wilkes, DI Dimmock, Major Barrymore.

John smiled absently a little as he realized what the problem was. "He pushes back."

"Exactly," said Molly. "Sherlock is uncomfortable with opposition of any kind, so he deals with it the only way he can: by digging his heels in and fighting back. So, quit fighting him, however subconsciously you're doing it."

John stared at her for a moment before looking away. _Could it really be that simple?_

"Ship secure. All decks ready."

John glanced up at the voice of Koenig, over at the left console.

The man next to them, whose jumpsuit read "Nichols," turned away from his console and towards Mycroft, his hand held to a strange earpiece in his ear. "Secure link with ground control and the _T'Lana Hamac_."

The woman at the front left console, her jumpsuit labeling her "Takei," spoke up. "The _T'Lana Hamac_ 's location is laid in. Course plotted."

The man at the front station next to her, Doohan, chimed in. "Engines operating at maximum, sir."

The woman at the station on the right side of the bridge, Nimoy, turned towards Mycroft. "Orbiting satellites blind. Ready for launch."

Mycroft nodded once. "Commence launch."

Communications Officer Nichols turned back to his monitors next to them. "Ground control, we are commencing launch. Open launch doors."

"On screen," commanded Mycroft.

Nichols pressed a button, and the view screen at the front of the bridge changed. The view of the room in front of the ship changed to one of a set of massive doors slowly sliding open. They opened on a night sky, the moon just visible in the corner of the screen.

"My God, we're really doing this," muttered Greg.

The launch doors slid all the way open, leaving a gaping hole in the roof.

"Ahead at one quarter impulse," said Mycroft, leaning back nonchalantly in his seat. "Full impulse once we're clear of the structure. Engage."

John gripped onto the edge of the seat under him, suddenly wishing they came with armrests. Engineering Officer Doohan at the front reached forward and pressed a button on his console. A hum vibrated up from beneath their feet and enveloped the bridge. The view of the doors quickly moved towards them, giving John a sense of misperception.

Here he was with the visual evidence that they were moving forward, and yet, there was no great shuddering, no blast under their feet; there wasn't even a release of momentum like when you get pushed back into your seat after putting your foot on the gas pedal in the car. There was no physical sensation of moving whatsoever. For all he knew, they were still sitting in the building, watching a video.

The night sky suddenly zoomed towards them, the stars becoming clear instead of twinkling through the atmosphere.

 _My God, the atmosphere…_ John thought. _We've left the atmosphere…_

As though reading his thoughts, the view screen was changed to what must have been the view behind them. The Earth filled the screen, clouds drifting over the surface, as it slowly became smaller. The next moment, space filled the edges of the screen as the Earth became just small enough to fit inside it. It then came to a stop.

"We are clear of orbit," Navigation Officer Takei said.

"Satellites back online," Security Officer Koenig said and then looked towards Mycroft. "They did not detect us."

"Warp availability at your command," said Engineering Officer Doohan.

"Warp 4, engage," said Mycroft.

Doohan hit a button on his console, and the hum began once again, increasing in pitch. The view of the Earth seemed to stretch and elongate, the stars around it becoming white lines. The next second, the Earth shot away from them, becoming smaller by the second.

"Approximately twenty-four days and nine hours until rendezvous with the _T'Lana Hamac_ ," Takei reported.

Mycroft stood from his seat. "Thank you, Dr. Takei." He walked over to John, Greg and Molly, who stood from their seats. "I gather this experience was to your satisfaction."

"Oh, yes," Molly told him with a smile. "Definitely worth it."

"Good," said Mycroft, turning towards Nichols. "Ahead view."

Nichols flicked a switch, changing the view screen—which was now showing a miniscule, shrinking blue dot—to a view of the oncoming star field. "Begin shift rotations. Team Beta, you have the bridge." He nodded at Koenig.

Koenig nodded back at his captain and then moved to the command chair while Nichols and Takei vacated their posts and headed for the lift.

Mycroft looked back at the three of them. "If you will follow me, I will show you to the cafeteria. It's about time for dinner, I imagine."

* * *

 **Yes, every crew member is named for the cast of the original Star Trek (including Dr. Kelley in the lab and the guard Shatner—like you didn't already figure that one out). Giving my props to the masters.**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fourteen

 **Finally! Why did this chapter take so long to get out? I know it's short, but oh, well.**

John sat down to his dinner in the mess hall—which was really only three rectangular tables, enough to seat eighteen people. "No offense, but this seems kind of small for a spaceship of this size. I mean—" he glanced around at the room, "three tables for the entire crew?"

"This is a survey ship," Mycroft informed him over his bowl of watercress soup. "Its crew is meant to be minimal."

"A survey ship that brought Sherlock to Earth and then sat in a warehouse for ten years?" asked Greg.

"Technically, it **is** being used in a survey mission," Mycroft pointed out.

John shrugged. "True."

"What do you call that thing?" Greg asked with a gesture to the machine set into the wall.

"A replicator," Mycroft told them.

"And it makes food?" asked Molly. "Out of thin air?"

"Not necessarily," Mycroft explained. "It only assembles the meal from what food stores are onboard. But maybe one day…" He went back to his soup.

Greg shook his head in amazement. "It's almost like magic."

"I imagine the Anglo-Saxons would feel the same way about mobile phones," said Mycroft.

Greg laughed as he speared some green beans on the end of his fork. "Alien technology…"

"Mm," John uttered before swallowing his mouthful of pork lo mein, "speaking of alien technology…" He looked at Mycroft. "Back in London, you mentioned the first UFO sightings. That had something to do with Sherlock's father, didn't it?"

Mycroft's brows rose, impressed. "My 'brother' seems to be a good influence on you." He took a drink of his tea before sitting back in his chair in preparation for a long story.

"While most of the UFO sightings over the years have been fake, the one that sparked interest in it all wasn't. A Vulcan scientist on a survey mission led a small crew to observe the effects of the sun in our solar system. Something went wrong on the ship, causing it to fall through Earth's atmosphere and crash in the desert just outside of Roswell, New Mexico."

Molly's jaw dropped slightly. "Area 51."

Mycroft nodded. "A young man recently graduated from high school was camping out nearby. He was the first human to reach the crash site. There was only one survivor: the Vulcan scientist. He was barely alive. The young man was the only person around to perform a katra ritual with."

"Sherlock's father," John supplied.

"Thomas Matheson was taken to Vulcan when a rescue ship arrived in response to the mayday call," Mycroft told them. "While he was there, he met Ainok."

"And decided to stay," finished John.

"Their union wasn't looked upon in a very positive light until Thomas proved himself able to hold his own with a Vulcan mind," Mycroft went on. "Humans had been viewed as lowly, unintelligent, backward beings who couldn't locate a sehlat if it pounced on them."

"Ouch," muttered John in offense.

"What's a sehlat?" asked Greg.

"A carnivorous beast native to Vulcan," John explained. "Just picture a bear-like sabertooth tiger."

"That would be correct," said Mycroft.

John suddenly frowned and shook his head. "Whoa…"

"What?" asked Molly.

"I-It was like there was a picture in my head," John told them. He frowned in distaste. "That thing is minging."

"That happen before?" asked Greg.

"Not like that," John told them. "I've gotten memories before, but it was a memory, you know? Something that's already happened; more like knowledge than memory. There's never been a picture like a slideshow before." He frowned again. "So weird…"

Something about his expression prompted Molly at ask, "What's weird?"

John looked up at them. "Well, there was just so much detail, like I was focused on every inch of the image. Almost like I remembered every little thing about it."

"Photographic memory," Greg said. "Looks like that's rubbing off, too."

"Yeah," said John. "Anyway, Mycroft, you were saying?" He speared some more noodles onto his fork.

"Thanks to Thomas' influence, Vulcans began to think of humans as an intelligent race, capable of one day joining them in the stars," Mycroft told them.

"Well, thank goodness," muttered John. "That kind of backwards thinking can really dampen a society."

Everyone chuckled at that as John smiled at the comment he had just uttered.

"So, you take my advice?" asked Molly.

John looked down at his plate.

"What advice?" asked Greg.

"I told him to quit fighting Sherlock," Molly explained. "He only fights back."

"Ain't that the truth," laughed Greg.

John shrugged. "Haven't really had a chance yet."

"Well, do it," Molly told him, a not quite stern look on her face. "The sooner, the better."

John stared at her, a smile creeping onto his face a little. He had never seen her so confident before. He was used to a mousy, timid Molly who stuttered and blushed in his presence. They had grown a little more comfortable with each other in the past few months, but the woman he had seen in the last few weeks…such depth of character…such beauty…

"John?" asked Molly, a worried look on her face.

John's stare broke off as he blinked a few times. "Hmm?"

"You okay?" asked Molly.

John's jaw dropped a little as he realized he had been smiling tenderly at Molly. What had that been? A warm, fuzzy feeling had spread through his chest at the sight of this new side of Molly. And his thought of Molly always stuttering and blushing in his presence—where had **that** come from? Molly had never…

But she **had** blushed for Sherlock. Those had been _Sherlock's_ feelings. It almost felt like…attraction. Could it be that Sherlock had been attracted to Molly?

"Erm…" John shook his head a little, frowning, "yeah, erm…guess I space out there."

"Which brings me back to my point," Molly told him.

"No," John replied. "No, I haven't yet. But I will tonight. I'm tired of feeling like my brain is being hijacked."

"Speaking of," Mycroft spoke up, "it's time I should be retiring for the night. My shift on the bridge begins in ten hours." He stood from the table.

"Good night," Molly told him.

Mycroft moved towards the automatic door, which swished open and then closed behind him.

"I'm a bit tired myself," Molly told them, standing from her seat. "I'll see you in the morning."

John took his last bite of food and stood to place their dishes in the high-tech dishwasher. Mycroft had explained how the computer cleaned the dishes sonically, whatever that meant.

"So, what was he thinking?" asked Greg suddenly.

John glanced up once as he placed their mugs in it as well. "Who?"

"Sherlock."

John stopped and looked over at him, frowning.

"Oh, come on, you didn't space out," Greg brushed off. "You had one of your Sherlock moments."

John glanced away, hoping he wasn't blushing. _Wait,_ _ **me**_ _blushing? What do_ _ **I**_ _have to be embarrassed about?_

"And by the look on your face while you looked at Molly, it was pretty special," Greg went on. "If I had to wager a guess, I'd say…affection?"

John's head snapped around so quick it was a wonder he didn't give himself whiplash. "Sentiment is a weakness, Lestrade." He scoffed, practically sneering his dislike. " _Feelings_. They're the grit in the lens, the fly in the ointment—nothing good **ever** comes from emotions."

He had said all of this at supersonic Sherlock speeds, but he now closed his eyes in annoyance at yet another interference of his brain waves.

"Oh, that's a yes!" Greg laughed a little. "Is it possible Sherlock liked…" he paused, correcting himself, " _likes_ Molly?"

John looked back up at Greg, smiling a little. "You know, I think he might."

Greg's smile widened. "Oh, brilliant! How are you dealing with that?"

"Well, I had no idea before tonight," John told him. "But, we'll see." He turned towards the door. "I'm off."

"Good luck meditating," Greg called after him.

John waved him off and headed through the door and towards his quarters. Once inside, he headed over to the end of the bed and sat on it, letting out a long breath. He couldn't believe he was about to do this, but he was on a starship, headed to rendezvous with an alien ship while carrying his dead mate's soul in his head in an effort to reunite that soul with his recently resurrected friend, so what was one more thing?

"Okay, Sherlock…" John spoke to the empty room, glancing around as he did, "you picked me for a reason. You trusted me to take care of you, and I've done a pretty poor job so far. All I've done is fight you, so…I'm done. Whatever's going to happen is going to happen, and…well…yeah…"

He took another breath and released it, and as he did so, he let go of the control he'd been trying to maintain over the situation. And as he did, he realized that there hadn't been a moment since Sherlock's death that he had been truly relaxed. But now, the tension melted away, and with it, the mental turmoil he had been fighting with the past month vanished. A calm acceptance flooded him, chasing away the anxious restlessness. Gone was the constant analyzing, the sleepless scrutiny, the fretful boredom, the emotionless focus. They were still there in the background, but John found that they were now muted, easily able to be controlled.

John's breath left him in a whoosh, and he took a breath of fresh air, a smile appearing on his face. Molly had been right; he could feel his mind and Sherlock's blending together as they were meant to under the circumstance. Sherlock's mind was still there, but now, it was withdrawn, waiting to be utilized.

"Okay, here's the deal," John spoke to the empty air. "You let me have some time for myself every now and then, and I'll let you out to breathe, got it?"

A wave of relief and gratitude swept over him. He could practically hear the "thank you" in Sherlock's smooth baritone.

"So, can you let me sleep for, say, seven hours?" John asked.

Sherlock's mind retreated slowly, and John felt the sleep deprivation from a month of little to no sleep creep up on him. Mentally thanking his friend, John fell wearily back onto his bed, still in his jeans, coat and shoes, and fell into the first good night's sleep he'd had in a month.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Fifteen

 **Sorry for the delay. I usually write my stories in class, but the only college class in have in the summer is a creative writing class, so we're already writing in there. But I promise, I never abandon a story. I am always writing.**

Greg picked up Molly's empty bowl, taking it and his own towards the hole recessed into the wall of the cafeteria. "So, you getting homesick yet?"

"Not quite yet," Molly responded from the table. "This is all just so exciting. I've been reading up on Vulcan traditions and rituals on the ship's computers. Did you know that male Vulcans undergo something called pon farr every seven years?"

Greg frowned as he turned back. "What's pon farr?"

"The burning of the Vulcan blood," Molly explained, clearly excited about the pathology of the thing. "It begins at puberty, and they must join with their chosen mate or they could die."

Greg stared at her for a long while before nodding once. "And that's something about Sherlock I could have gone without knowing."

Molly winced, blushing. "Sorry. I sometimes forget that no one else is interested in stuff like that."

"You've been hanging around Sherlock too much," Greg told her.

Molly laughed with him before a light on the panel behind Greg flipped on.

" _Inspector Lestrade,"_ Mycroft's voice emitted from the speaker next to the light, _"you are needed on the bridge."_

Greg turned to the wall and held a button down. "On my way." He looked back at Molly, releasing the button. "Catch you later."

Molly nodded as Greg left the cafeteria and headed for the turbolift. Upon arriving on the bridge, he found Mycroft sitting in the captain's chair with the two other members of Team Alpha.

"Inspector," greeted Mycroft as he stood, "you have an urgent message from Earth." He strode over to the communications console and addressed Officer Nichols. "Open the channel, on screen."

The view screen at the front of the bridge flickered from a view of the oncoming stars to the face of Sally Donovan.

Greg's face brightened at the sight. "Donovan. Long time, no see."

"Lestrade," Donovan greeted soberly. "How is your special assignment going?"

"Good," Greg told her. "Starting to get a bit homesick, though."

Donovan nodded, hesitating a moment before plowing on. "How's John doing? I mean, being cooped up with Sherlock in an enclosed space for the last three weeks can't be easy."

Greg gave a crooked smile—not quite a smirk—at Donovan's words. There was one time when Donovan wouldn't have expressed such concern, or if she had, would have used her well-used phrase: "the Freak." But after the day Sherlock had revealed himself to them—namely his mind meld with the sergeant—Donovan had never called him that ever again. Not once in the past nine months has Greg heard the word "freak" from Donovan's mouth. Had Sherlock unconsciously transferred some memory of how much that word had hurt?

"He's doing better," Greg told her. "I think Sherlock backed off once he realized we were headed to his home."

Mycroft had warned them about not mentioning details in their communications with Earth, should they be intercepted. Greg had thought watching his words would be difficult, but it was similar to talking about police cases.

"Well, that's good," said Donovan, worrying her lip between her teeth.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked her.

Donovan released her held breath. "We've got a case that's looking a bit rough. We can't figure it out." She sighed in slight reluctance. "Do you think John can help?"

Greg nodded once. "Wouldn't hurt to try." He turned towards Mycroft.

Mycroft stepped forward and pressed one of the buttons on the arm of the captain's chair. "Dr. Watson, you are needed on the bridge."

They waited a moment, but there was nothing but silence.

Mycroft pressed the button again. "Dr. Watson."

Again, silence.

"I'll go get him," Greg told them. "Probably screeching away on the violin." He moved to the turbolift and headed down to their quarters.

Approaching the door, he pressed a button on it and waited a few seconds before it slid open. He was not greeted by the strands of violin music, but by silence.

Greg cautiously poked his head in. "John?"

"Here," came John's voice from off to the left.

Greg stepped further into the room and peered over to see John sitting at the table, intently studying something with a microscope. "Didn't you hear us calling?"

"I disconnected the speaker a few days ago," John told him briskly without looking up. "Sherlock was getting distracted."

Greg frowned at the table set up with microscope and slides. "You brought all that with you?"

"No," replied John.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Medical facilities." John switched slides, turning the focusing knobs.

Greg stepped closer. "Do they know you took it?"

John slowly looked up, almost rolling his eyes as he met Greg's gaze. "No, Lestrade, I thought it'd be fun to steal it." A change seemed to smoothly sweep over him as he shifted in his seat slightly. "Afraid I'm gonna have to agree with him on that one, Greg. Molly and I are the closest thing they have to a medical staff, remember?" He instantly went back to examining slides, his entire demeanor shifting once again. "What did you want?"

"Donovan's on the line," Greg told him. "They've got a case they can't solve—"

John immediately stood from his seat, grabbing his jacket on the way to the door.

Greg smiled. "I can tell you're really excited about this."

John headed out into the corridor as Greg followed him. "Are you kidding? Sherlock hasn't had a case in weeks. We've read all the books I brought, played the violin to his heart's content, and run just about every experiment he can think of. I still have to survive another three days before we reach the _T'Lana Hamac_."

"How's that going, by the way?" asked Greg as they reached the turbolift.

"Pretty good," John answered, hitting a button on the panel. "Bridge." He turned back to Greg. "I'm getting good, regular sleep, I'm not suddenly finding myself somewhere that I don't know how I got there, Sherlock's keeping himself in check, and I'm letting him out for plenty of breathing time. I mean, sure, he lashes out every once in a while, but this has to be stressful for him, too. I think I can cut him some slack."

The doors slid open, and John stepped out onto the bridge.

John leaned on one of the center consoles in front of the view screen. "Show me."

Donovan hesitated a moment, shocked at the abruptness coming off of him, before she nodded. "I'm going to use the miniature camera and earpiece and go back to the crime scene."

John nodded once as whatever device Donovan was using was set down. A few seconds went by before the screen changed, the video feed now coming from a different camera. Donovan was placing something in her ear, adjusting it.

"Can you hear me?" she asked.

"Yes," John answered. "Now, please get back to the crime scene before Sherlock starts yelling."

Donovan shook her head as she turned the camera around, obviously pinning it to the front of her coat.

They watched as Donovan stepped out of whatever room she had been in and headed down a hall, where police officers mingled at the end of it. John looked off to the side, closing his yes and letting out a breath. The next second, he opened his eyes and snapped his head back over towards the view screen, his eyes narrowed as his hands came up to press together in front of his mouth.

Greg smirked at the sight. _I guess Sherlock's in the driver seat now._

The video moved towards the flat on the right, where yellow tape was warding the doorway.

"Wait, stop!" John told her. "The door across from it." He moved around the console towards the view screen.

They watched the video as it stopped and then slowly turned towards the other door, Donovan probably trying to make her movements seem natural. The door came into view on the screen.

"The door knob," John told her.

Donovan stepped towards the door and stooped slightly, causing the doorknob to fill the screen.

John peered closely at the doorknob before backing up again. "Now, the flat."

Donovan straightened up, pausing before her hand came into view, gesturing vaguely at the door in front of her.

"No, no, the crime scene, you—" John bit the word back, before almost growling out, "Sherlock." He looked back up at the screen. "Sorry."

Donovan turned back towards the taped-off doorway and ducked under the tape, setting foot into the living room, where a body was sprawled out on the floor, Anderson crouching next to it in his blue coverall.

The body was a man in his late twenties, blood pooled under him on the carpet in a two-foot radius. He appeared to have been beaten to death, with bruises all over his bare torso, arms and face. Lacerations were littered among the bruises, a couple deep enough to see muscle underneath. But most curiously, the body appeared to be arranged specifically on the floor.

"Move around to his feet," John instructed.

Donovan continued into the scene, circling around the body as Anderson gathered another sample from it. When she reached the feet of the body, they were able to make out how he had been arranged. The legs were stretched out, the ankles crossed. The arms were thrown out to the sides, as though the man was about to hug someone.

John smirked a little. "Tell me about it."

Donovan moved around a bit so she was opposite Anderson again. "So, what've you found out?"

Anderson looked up at her with a frown. "There hasn't been anything new since you left." His expression faltered before the video seemed to blink out a couple of times; obviously, Donovan was discreetly tapping at the small camera. Anderson's eyes tracked over to gaze into the camera, and he looked back up at her, giving a shrug. "But, you're the boss…"

John's brows rose as Anderson pulled himself to his feet. Sherlock's voice appeared in his head.

 _I had no idea Donovan and Anderson were any good at subterfuge._

John smiled at the rogue thought.

Anderson stepped around the body as he spoke. "The brother found him an hour ago. None of the neighbors heard anything, but from the freshness of the bruises and blood, it happened within the last few hours, while everyone was at work or school. Victim died of severe blunt force trauma and blood loss. We haven't found any fingerprints _or_ footprints. There's nothing out of place, so far as we can tell."

"Can't you?" muttered John.

From the look on Anderson's face, Donovan had obviously paused, listening to John.

"Take me to the bookcase," John told her.

Donovan moved around the body and stepped up in front of the shelves.

"Second shelf from the top, third book from the left," John listed off.

Donovan made no move on the camera, so John rolled his eyes.

"Every book in that case has a layer of dust on it and in front of it," John quickly explained. "But not that one. It's obviously used often, but they tried to make it appear as though it isn't. You can put back everything but dust. Dust is eloquent."

Donovan reached forward and pulled the book out, making sure to hold it in front of herself. It was a copy of Dante's _Inferno_. Flipping it open, it fell instantly open to a secret compartment cut into the pages. Inside the compartment was an iron decoration, a pentagram with a goat's head in the middle of it.

John huffed out a sigh, practically groaning. "Oh, I hate the crazy ones." He then raised his voice to address Donovan. "Death by satanic brother."

Donovan turned back to Anderson, appearing to address the question at him. "The brother found him. You think he's involved?"

"The rope burns on the victim's wrists and ankles," John quickly explained. "Clearly, he fought against the restraints, so, homicide. The book suggests that the killer lived with him."

"Couldn't the killer have brought the book with him?" Donovan asked before her hand clenched around the book, obviously wincing at the slip-up.

"The dust on the surrounding books and shelf suggests they are in their usual place," John told her. "Meaning, that book is also in its usual spot. Not to mention the floor."

"Floor…" Donovan muttered so that the others wouldn't hear her.

"Surely you noticed the grooves in the rug," said John. "There's an indentation in the floor underneath in the shape of a circle. Clearly, another pentagram. Conclusion: the brother is a closet Satanist who sacrificed his own brother."

Donovan moved over towards the body, pausing as she pretended to notice something different under her feet. She moved off of the rug and grabbed the edge of it, pulling it up to where the body lay on it. Carved quite expertly into the hardwood floor was a pentagram, the body spread out in the very middle of it. Other smaller symbols were carved in the spaces of the pentagram. And soaked into the lines and grooves of the carving was blood.

"Make some kind of off-hand insult of his practices in his presence, and I guarantee you will end up with a confession," John told her, moving away from the screen and towards Greg. "Text me when you have an _actual_ case, Lestrade." He then closed his eyes, and his body seemed to relax; only slightly, though—he was still a military man. He opened his eyes and smiled at them. "Thanks for that, Greg. It was a nice breath of fresh air."

They looked back at the screen as Donovan approached the officers standing with the brother, who was actually sporting a convincing look of shock and grief.

Donovan looked at one of the officers, holding out the book with its secret compartment and iron pentagram in an evidence bag. "Freak was some kind of Satanist."

The brother's mask of grief slipped for an instant as the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Human sacrifice," Donovan continued. There was a momentary pause. "I can't believe people still do this. What kind of idiot believes in this stuff anymore?"

"He's not an idiot," the brother blurted, his jaw clenched and his gaze steely. "He knows the truth."

"What truth?" asked Donovan. "The devil? What kind of psychopath believes that?"

The brother's arms shot down to his sides, fists clenched and eyes wide in anger. "I am not a psychopath!"

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath," John muttered out of the corner of his mouth, causing Greg to snicker beside him. John joined in before looking up at the screen again.

"You?" asked Donovan, stepping closer.

The brother froze, staring her down, before his shoulders dropped slightly and his jaw clenched again. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing, actually," Donovan told him, stepping forward. "Jason Phillips, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Brian Phillips."

Greg nodded with a smile as the feed was disconnected. "Good job, boys." He looked over at John to find him still staring at the blank view screen. "John?"

But John couldn't hear him. From the moment that phrase had been uttered—"What did I miss?"—John had been thrown back to another day in another place. Another voice—an angrier, louder one—was asking, "What did I miss?" Sherlock's laughter echoed in the air.

" _I'm not Mycroft, remember?"_

" _Your only three friends in the world will die…"_

" _Stayin' alive! It's so boring, isn't it?"_

" _DOOFUS!"_

" _Don't think for one second…that I am one of them."_

" _Did I nearly get you?"_

" _The key code wasn't the only thing I planted."_

" _I don't have to die…if I've got you."_

" _Seems as though you are well and truly…buggered."_

" _Daylight robbery!"_

" _Last one to Sherlock is a sissy."_

"John?"

John blinked, finding Greg standing in front of him, hands on John's shoulders. Mycroft was just behind Greg's right shoulder, brows furrowed in concern. The crew members on the bridge were looking to him in unease.

"You with us?" asked Greg.

John blinked a couple more times. "I think so…"

"Thought we lost you a minute there," said Greg. "What happened?"

John stared up at him in shock. "I think it was a memory."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Sixteen

 **I'm actually surprised this chapter came out so quickly. We're getting towards the end, people!**

* * *

"A memory?" asked Greg. "You sure?"

"I don't know…" said John, thinking back to the scene he had just witnessed and wondering what he could check to see if it was real. What was in that memory that he hadn't already known that Mycroft would?

 _Ah!_ he thought in realization. _German!_

"Mycroft, what does 'reichenbach' mean?" John asked.

Mycroft frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"'Reichenbach,'" John prompted again. "What does it mean in English?"

Mycroft's frown remained in place. "Well…reichenbach translates as rich brook from German."

John's face brightened in relief. "So, it was real…"

"What did you see?" asked Greg.

"Sherlock's confrontation with Moriarty on the rooftop," John told them. He gave a shake of his head. "I can't believe I pulled a memory from him…"

"A natural progression of the deeper katra bond," said Mycroft. "I was honestly expecting it sooner."

John stared at him a moment. "You knew this was going to happen?"

Mycroft gave a single nod.

John gave him a shrug right back. "Well, thanks for the heads-up." He gave a sigh. "I'm gonna go try to occupy my guest's mind for the next three days."

He turned and headed back into the turbolift, which took him down towards the main deck. When the doors opened, Molly was standing there.

"John!" she said with a smile. "Hi! I was just coming to find you. Your intercom wasn't working."

"Oh, yeah, Sherlock was getting annoyed, so we disconnected it," John told her.

"'We'?" asked Molly with a smile.

John smiled back. "Yes, we. I find the two of us working together more and more lately."

"Speaking of, I thought maybe you'd like to come check out some alien autopsies on the computer with me," said Molly.

John's brows rose in interest, his eyes sparkling in excitement. "Superb. Molly, you're spoiling us." He then walked out of the lift and towards the medical facilities.

Molly giggled and followed after him.

* * *

"So, Klingons have multiple vital organs in order to provide redundancy in case of injury," John muttered, peering closely at the computer's recreation of a Klingon body. "Fascinating."

Molly nodded next to him, narrowing her eyes at the primitive hologram. "And the double-lined neural pia mater means they could literally die and then revive themselves. It's absolutely amazing…"

John's eyes moved over to her, taking in the way she stared in wonder at the image of the body. She knew exactly how to look at something—anything—and turn it around to find the positive. It was one of the things he loved about her. Other than her eyes. The way they lit up when he walked into the room, the sparkle when she was working, the way the brown shown in the sunlight…

"Erm…John…" said Molly.

"What?" John asked in a quiet voice, the breath in his voice causing Molly's hair at the side of her face to flutter slightly.

That was when John realized just what was happening: Sherlock's mind had slipped forward, and John had leaned towards Molly until their faces were almost touching. Had Molly not said anything, John just might have ended up kissing her.

John's eyes widened as he shot away from Molly. "Erm…I, er—"

"John…" said Molly softly as she turned in her seat towards him. "I'm sorry, but I just don't feel the same way."

John's brows rose as he shook his head. "No, no, no—"

"It's all right," Molly told him. "It's just the stress of the last couple months. Close quarters and all that."

Opening his mouth to tell her that she had it all wrong, John was shocked when what came out was, "I'm sorry. I'm not sure why I did that. You're probably right; stress and all that." He paused a moment and then motioned towards the door. "I better…" He nodded and then stood and moved out into the corridor, trying to fight down a blush.

 _Where did_ _ **that**_ _come from?_ he wondered. _Why would I admit to that? It's not even true!_

John found an empty room a couple doors down and stepped inside, leaning against the wall and sighing. "What the bloody hell was that?"

 _Well, I couldn't let her figure out it was_ _ **me**_ _,_ came Sherlock's voice.

John frowned, glancing around self-consciously before replying. "What?"

 _Well, better you under the bus than me,_ Sherlock told him.

" _Sherlock_?" John asked, still not sure what was going on.

 _Well, who else would it be?_ Sherlock responded.

John's eyes widened as his jaw dropped. "You're conscious?" He could practically feel the sarcastic rebuke coming on. "You know what I mean."

 _Yes, John, I am._

"How?" asked John.

 _The bond._

"Wait, have you been self-aware this whole time?"

 _Of course. Where did you think my thoughts have been coming from?_

"Why didn't you say anything?" John exclaimed.

 _I thought I had!_

John threw his hands up in the air. "Ugh!"

 _Although, "whole time" might be a bit of an overstatement._

"What?"

 _It wasn't like this at first. I only became…"self-aware," as you put it, once you stopped fighting me three weeks ago._

"Oh." John then came to a horrible, embarrassing conclusion. "So, does this mean you…were watching…I mean, while…you know, the…bathroom…" His voice had shrunk to practically a whisper by the end of that sentence.

Sherlock's "voice" took on an affronted tone, all sharp consonants and emphasized syllables. _John, I am offended. I am a gentleman. Why would I_ _ **look**_ _?_

John felt relief before doubt crept back in. It was hard sometimes to tell when Sherlock was being sarcastic, especially when John didn't have any of his facial cues to go by. And it's not like Sherlock knew the definition of boundaries. "Do you really—"

 _John!_

"All right." John backed off as he raised his hands in defense, knowing his friend was telling the truth. And speaking of… "So, Molly…"

Sherlock was oddly silent at the change of subject.

"Wanna tell me about that?" asked John.

 _Preferably not._

John's smile lit up his face. "Ah, so, there **is** something!"

 _Obviously. It's not like I can hide anything from you right now._

"And she doesn't know," John told him.

 _Of course she doesn't or I wouldn't have had to make her think that had all been you._

"Yeah, thanks for that, by the way."

 _You're under abnormal amounts of stress. She knows that._

"That's not the point, Sherlock."

Sherlock's voice rose. _She can't know!_

John's voice rose as well. "Why not?"

 _How can anything happen with her if I have to break her heart when I leave for Vulcan?_

Sherlock's words had practically run together in their heat. John paused, letting the both of them cool off for a moment. He had never felt more pity for his friend than he did right now; unable to give in to what he wanted because of what he was.

"Well, what are we going to do about this?" John asked. "I can't very well lose my mind every time I'm around her."

 _That's hardly my fault._

" _Excuse me_?"

 _I've always been able to control this. You're the one who's always in touch with his emotions._

"And yet, if it wasn't for your sexual frustration—and, yes, that's exactly what it is—we wouldn't be in this mess."

Sherlock was completely silent after that.

"Sherlock…" John prompted.

Silence.

"Fine, be that way." John turned to move towards the door. He never made it.

John had to reach out for the wall to hold himself up. A hand flew to his chest, loosely pressing against it. The flood of emotion surging through him practically drowned him. He gulped for air at the feeling coursing through him. Warmth and joy and light and ecstasy spilled through him and overwhelmed him. It lasted for several long moments—it could have been seconds, it could have been minutes—before it slowly faded away. John slowly fell against the wall, leaning his back against it as he recovered.

 _Never presume to think that what I feel for her is so petty._

John stared at the floor in shock. He had never felt such love in his entire life. He had assumed an attraction—at most, a harmless little crush—but he never suspected it might be something so much deeper than that.

"I had no idea…" John breathed out.

Sherlock paused before speaking in a small voice. _Well, you wouldn't, would you?_

"I'm sorry," John whispered, feeling the pity come on again.

 _Oh, for God's sake. Can we move on?_

Recognizing his friend's defense mechanism, John smiled and backed off, pushing himself back up onto his feet and heading out into the corridor. "Where to?"

 _Anywhere but the medical facilities._

John nodded and headed in the direction of his quarters. Once he got into the turbolift and set his destination, he spoke again. "Your secret's safe with me, by the way."

Just before the doors opened, Sherlock finally responded.

 _Thank you._

* * *

There was a new tension between John and Molly when he finally showed his face. She would begin to avoid his gaze at first before forcing herself to look at him. The whole situation in the lab the day before had rattled her. John couldn't tell how much of the truth Molly suspected, but either way, the tension was there.

John had been careful to avoid Molly for the rest of that day, trying to keep to the truth of the lie Sherlock had told her. John also tried to keep the fact that he and Sherlock were conversing with each other to himself. He wasn't sure why—surely, Mycroft knew that it was happening—but it just felt too personal to involve anyone else.

John had taken to shutting himself in his quarters in order to talk to his friend, something he hadn't been able to do for far too long. Being able to speak aloud, even if the response was still in his head, felt as normal as the situation could get. After a couple days, though, it gradually switched to internal dialogue. John had grown more comfortable with thinking at Sherlock instead of speaking at; it had become almost natural. So natural that it was bound to slip out at some point.

John stepped into the common room, finding Greg and Molly sitting together at one of the groupings of chairs in the room. They both looked up as he entered, Greg giving him a smile.

"Hey, haven't seen you much the past couple of days," Greg told him.

John glanced at Molly, who fidgeted in her seat a little. He looked back at Greg. "Yeah, sorry about that. Sherlock was sulking."

 _I do not sulk!_ Sherlock replied.

 _Yeah, you do,_ John told him.

"Bored?" Greg asked with a chuckle.

"Actually, no," John responded. "Just…sulking." He took a seat across from Molly's chair.

"You'll feel better after we reach the rendezvous," Molly told him.

"Will I?" asked John. "I'll still have another three weeks to put up with him."

 _I'm not_ _ **that**_ _insufferable,_ said Sherlock.

 _Oh, come on,_ scoffed John.

Sherlock gave a sigh. _Oh, very well…_

"Sherlock might settle once we're onboard the other ship," said Molly.

"Maybe," muttered John.

"Well, Donovan says thank you," Greg told him.

"Tell her to bring something more interesting next time," John responded in a brusque tone.

"Well, then, this might cheer you up," said Greg. "I brought some cold cases with me."

John's eyes widened as he straightened up in excitement. "Excellent! How many?"

"About nine or ten," Greg answered. "I'll hand them over after we switch over to the other ship."

"Lestrade—" began John in protest.

" **After** ," Greg told him. "You'll thank me later."

What could only be described as a pout appeared on John's face as he slouched back in his chair, arms crossed.

"Oh, don't be like that," said Greg. "You've survived just fine without them the past three weeks."

 _You call this surviving?_ Sherlock demanded.

"It works just fine for the rest of us," John told him.

Molly frowned in confusion. "What?"

John closed his eyes as he realized what he had done.

 _Inside voice, John,_ Sherlock taunted.

"I know, I know," muttered John.

Greg leaned towards him, brows knitted together. "John…"

"It's okay," John told them. "I discovered a few days ago that Sherlock is actually awake in here." He tapped his own head. "As in, talking to me and all that."

"Really?" asked Greg, brows rising in skepticism.

 _Tell him about the time he had to go undercover at the gay bar,_ Sherlock told him.

"No way," laughed John, a hand coming up to his mouth before lowering again. "As what, the bartender?"

 _One of the patrons. The suspect had a type._

John burst out in laughter, clutching at his side. Greg and Molly glanced at each other, unnerved by the one-sided conversation.

 _That's actually how we met. I was there to investigate, so I was apparently acting suspiciously; you know me. Lestrade thought I was the suspect. Tried to arrest me. Suspect almost got away._

John started laughing again.

 _Should've seen him try to get his handcuffs out of those tight trousers._

John's laughter renewed again, and he wiped away a few tears.

"John…" said Molly in a quiet voice, clearly worried about him.

"Sorry, sorry," John told them before looking over at Greg. "Sherlock was just telling me about the time you two met during your undercover case."

Greg's face went white as his jaw dropped. "You could've guessed that…"

"The suspect frequented the Admiral Duncan—" began John.

"All right, he's talking to you," Greg said quickly, avoiding their gazes.

Molly stared over at Greg, a smile itching to break out. "The Admiral Duncan?"

"It was before I became detective inspector, no one else at the Yard matched the suspect's type, the guy had killed five people!" Greg rattled off. "It's not like it was a drag queen bar!"

Molly and John were practically rolling in their chairs in laughter. Even Sherlock was laughing with them, not that anyone but John knew that.

"Thanks a lot, Sherlock," Greg grumbled at him.

 _You asked for it._

"Technically, he didn't, mate," John replied.

"I don't want to know," Greg told him.

The panel by the door lit up. _"Dr. Watson?"_

John stood and moved over to the panel, pressing the com button. "Go ahead, Mycroft."

" _Please report to the bridge,"_ said Mycroft before pausing for a moment. _"We are approaching the_ T'Lana Hamac _."_

* * *

 **I hadn't originally planned for Sherlock to be self-aware inside John's head like that, but the idea came to me as I was writing the beginning of this chapter, and it just wouldn't let go. I think I was also missing Sherlock a bit.**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Seventeen

 **Sorry for the wait. Summer semester finals and then maid of honor and then surgery. I've got about two more weeks before fall, so I'm hoping to get another chapter written by then.**

* * *

John stepped onto the bridge, Greg and Molly trailing behind him. On the view screen, a starship gradually drew closer out of the blackness of space.

The ship was very compact, its hull in the shape of a spoon without the handle. Wings stuck out of the back and the side, and it was reddish-brown in color, the same as every Vulcan ship they had seen so far. And next to it was a spaceship that was more familiar to John. It appeared to be similar to an Apollo-era rocket and was obviously the probe that had carried Sherlock here.

As the ship filled the screen, Mycroft gave his command. "Slow to one-quarter impulse."

"Yes, sir," Officer Doohan replied, hitting a couple of buttons.

John stared at the approaching ship, his hands clenching at his sides in trepidation. Somewhere on that ship, Sherlock's body sat, waiting for his mind to return.

 _Relax, John,_ said Sherlock. _You're making_ _ **me**_ _nervous._

John smiled before letting out a slow breath. _I can't help it. There's…something, something pulling at me._

 _I know,_ Sherlock replied. _I feel it, too._

"Sir, we are being hailed," Officer Nichols announced.

"On screen," Mycroft replied.

The view of the ship instantly flipped over to the image of a Vulcan man, his eyes stern beneath the slanted brows. He was wearing what could only be a set of white robes, a black cloak hung over it.

"Mycroft Holmes, I presume," the Vulcan began, raising his hand in the traditional Vulcan salute. "I am Tairok, captain of the _T'Lana Hamac_."

Mycroft returned the salute. "The pleasure is mine, Captain Tairok." He lowered his hand as the Vulcan did likewise.

"Where is the keeper of the katra?" asked Tairok.

Mycroft turned towards John, who glanced hesitantly at him and then stepped forward.

"John Watson," the doctor told the Vulcan.

"John Watson," Tairok greeted, inclining his head temporarily. He then looked back at Mycroft. "We will dock momentarily."

"How is he?" Mycroft asked.

"Well, considering the circumstances," Tairok answered. "We'll talk more in person."

Mycroft nodded. "We'll commence docking."

Tairok nodded and ended the transmission.

Mycroft looked at the three of them. "I suggest you gather your things. We will be transferring to the _T'Lana Hamac_ within the half hour."

John nodded and turned back to the lift with Greg and Molly.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the four Londoners were standing at the airlock door, bags in hand. A green light flashed above the door before it opened, and they were met by Tairok.

"Welcome aboard," Tairok greeted.

Mycroft stepped forward, leading the others into the other ship. "Thank you, captain."

John stepped onto the ship, the three bags clutched in his hands. That pull he had felt on the bridge earlier was back, more powerful than ever. Sherlock was silent in his head, no doubt as struck by this feeling as John was.

"Your quarters are located down this…"

As Tairok continued to spell out the basics of the ship, John delved into this hum of feeling, letting it flow over him.

 _I think I know what this is…_ Sherlock told him.

John believed he did as well; there was no other explanation. He stepped forward past the Vulcan as he stared down the corridor, almost in a daze. His skin tingled, the hair on his arms standing up. He felt like a child lost in a maze, drawn towards the sound of a parent's voice. He closed his eyes, trying to narrow down the direction that felt the strongest.

"John?" came Molly's voice through the fog.

John's head turned towards his right, where the tingle grew instantly to a buzz. He opened his eyes and glanced down the adjacent corridor.

 _Go,_ Sherlock told him urgently.

John immediately dropped his bags and hurried down the corridor, the others calling after him before following. His pace quickened as the buzz strengthened, humming through his body. He turned down a corridor on his left, practically running. As though a leash were attached, his head turned unerringly towards a door halfway down the corridor. He stopped and reached forward, triggering the doors. As they whooshed open, that buzz fled him in an instant.

Staring through the open doorway, John's eyes fell on the figure in the bed. It was a private medical room, so there was really only room for a bed, two chairs next to it and a small counter and cabinets across from it. An IV on a pole stood next to the bed, where Sherlock lay, his eyes closed as he gently breathed.

John stood in that spot as the others gathered behind him. For a moment, he almost felt as though he couldn't move. His jaw hung open slightly as he stared at his friend's body. It just felt so surreal. Here he was, standing in the doorway, but he was also lying on the bed. He had once sarcastically told John during a case that no one could be in two places at once, and yet—

Those thoughts came to a grinding halt as John closed his eyes.

 _Sorry,_ Sherlock told him.

Sherlock's mind released itself, and John opened his eyes, the dreamlike sense fading as he looked down at his friend. He stepped into the room, slowly moving over to one of the chairs in it. He sat down as he continued to stare, amazed that his friend was lying there, alive, after all that had happened.

" _It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

" _Please, will you do this for me?"_

" _This phone call—it's, er…It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

" _John, listen to me. I am and always shall be…your friend."_

" _Goodbye, John."_

" _SHERLOCK!"_

 _Sherlock stepped off of the roof and plummeted towards the ground, impacting with a sickeningly loud crunch._

 _Sherlock's emerald blood spilled out onto the pavement around him, framing is pale, still face in a halo of green. Blood spilled from cuts and gashes on his head and face._

John's eyes moved over Sherlock's head and face, amazed at the smooth porcelain skin.

"There's not a scratch…" Molly said in a quiet, wonder-filled voice.

John glanced over to see that Molly had pulled the other chair up next to him as she was staring down at Sherlock's vacant body from it.

"Yes, the energy seems to have completely healed him," Tairok told them. "During our tests, we didn't find a single injury."

"And you've been monitoring his health?" Mycroft asked.

"Naturally," said Tairok. "We've been feeding him, but he surprisingly hasn't needed much sustenance."

Mycroft gave a faint smirk. "No, I imagine he wouldn't."

As Mycroft continued to inquire about Sherlock's health and well-being, John watched as Molly reached forward and gently clasped Sherlock's hand. John stared down at the hand and looked back up at her, smiling fondly. The look in Molly's eyes as she stared down at Sherlock was so worried, almost grieving for this man. If he looked just right, he could see the love practically pouring out of her eyes.

 _Molly…_ Sherlock's voice whispered.

John slowly reached forward and placed his hand atop hers, trying to comfort her. Molly froze and looked up at him.

John was very careful to keep his expression schooled as he mentally groaned. _Sherlock…_

Sherlock groaned right back. _Sorry. Trying to my best here._ He receded back into John's subconscious.

John kept the smile a moment longer as he came up with an idea.

 _No, don't!_ Sherlock told him, tracing his thoughts.

John pushed Sherlock back down before pretending to come back to himself and looking down at his hand. He pulled his hand back. "Oh, sorry."

 _John!_ Sherlock warned, mentally banging against John's consciousness.

"I think Sherlock wanted you to know he was still here, alive," John told her.

 _Dammit, John!_ Sherlock shouted in anger.

 _Just trust me, you git!_ John shouted back.

At John's words, Molly's eyes widened, and she pulled back into her chair, releasing Sherlock's hand.

"Oh, my God," Molly stuttered, her cheeks flaming. "He's conscious. I don't know how I forgot." Her eyes avoided his as they darted about on her lap. "I didn't mean…I wasn't…" Her hands twisted in her lap nervously. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." She jumped to her feet and hurried past Mycroft and Tairok on the way out the door.

John stared after her before looking back at Sherlock.

 _Nice quick thinking, John, but do you think you could have avoided humiliating her?_ Sherlock demanded.

 _It's nothing she's not used to around you,_ John told him.

 _Dear Lord, I'm rubbing off on you,_ Sherlock said with a sigh.

 _Yeah, I know,_ John replied pointedly. _It won't be permanent, right?_

 _Not usually, but, honestly…I have no idea._

John nodded to himself as he looked back at Sherlock's body. He had never seen his flatmate look so peaceful, even the rare times he had caught him asleep at the flat. A side effect of a complete mind wipe, no doubt.

"Dr. Watson?"

John looked up at Mycroft, seeing the expectant yet deducing look on his face.

 _He's just figured out you can talk to me now,_ Sherlock told him.

 _Oh, so that's what it is,_ John replied. He then gave a mental smirk. _Want to tell him how slow he is?_ He then relaxed his hold on himself, allowing Sherlock to either react or let it be.

Sherlock instantly surged forward as Mycroft opened his mouth to address John again.

"Is he—"

"Yes, Mycroft, I am," Sherlock told him through John's mouth. "Have been for weeks, in fact. Surprised it took you this long to notice." He then used John's face to give Mycroft a cheeky grin. Satisfied, he then retreated once again.

John emerged once again and gave a few laughs at the look on Mycroft's face.

"It's like watching a bipolar person, innit?" said Greg with a smile from next to Mycroft.

Mycroft glanced at him. "Yes, how colorful." He looked back at John but then froze as his eyes tracked off to John's right. "John…"

John followed his gaze back to Sherlock, whose eyes were now open. John's eyes widened as he turned more towards the bed.

Sherlock's body blinked a few times before his gaze tracked down from the ceiling and landed on John's face. John had to suppress a gasp; he had never seen Sherlock like this. Those pale, grey eyes stared into his, completely blank. They had never been blank before; they were always all-seeing and all-knowing. Even when Sherlock stared off into his mind palace, those unseeing eyes were still so full of life, of vivacity, of _Sherlock_. But now, it was such an empty stare, sucking John in in his desire for something to just **be** there.

"Hi…Sherlock…" John told him gently.

The pale eyes flitted down to John's mouth, the head cocking in interest at the words.

 _You_ _ **do**_ _know I'm not in there, right?_ Sherlock told him.

 _It's good that someone talks to him,_ John replied. _You know, it's like a baby._

 _A baby?_ Sherlock exclaimed, sounding offended.

 _He has to have_ _ **some**_ _kind of interaction._

 _John, "he" is me. You're talking like we're two different people._

 _But you're not there, are you? You're here._

 _Unbelievable. You're giving_ _ **me**_ _a headache._

John smiled as he focused back on the curious face in front of him. His eyes had trailed down to John's hands, moving over them in curiosity instead of scrutiny for once.

Sherlock hummed in his head. _You were right. I do have sharp cheekbones._

John laughed, causing Sherlock's body to look up at him and smile after a moment.

"Has he woken often?" asked Mycroft.

"Every once in a while," Tairok replied. "Mostly, he just sleeps."

"As expected," nodded Mycroft. He glanced at John briefly. "Come along, John. Best to let him rest."

Sherlock's eyes had already begun to close, so John got to his feet and headed back towards the door, taking one last look at the sleeping form on the bed before leaving.

* * *

Molly sat in the chair next to Sherlock's bed, holding his hand. It was the first time she was able to really be herself around him; not having to watch what she said or did. They may have cleared the air between them, but sooner or later, that muggy smoke always comes back. At least now she didn't have to worry about him watching her. Unless John was around. She didn't know how she could have forgotten that that first day. Well, they _had_ just found out about Sherlock's conscious presence right before. But Sherlock had seen her holding his hand! She hadn't been embarrassed like that around him in months.

Molly leaned forward, placing her arms on the edge of the bed as she kept hold of his hand. She moved cautiously, not wanting to wake him up. She then reached up and brushed the hair off of his forehead, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin. Sherlock's eyes twitched in his sleep, causing Molly's hand to still. When it did, though, Sherlock shifted in his sleep, and Molly held her breath, but Sherlock's head only leaned into her touch. Giving a small smile, Molly resumed her stroking. Sherlock gave a contented sigh and settled.

 _He really is like a child,_ Molly thought. Her head tilted slightly. _I wonder what he was like as a child._

Molly had only ever seen the upright English gentleman, but what might he have been like before losing that childish innocence and putting on the indifferent mask. But it wasn't a mask, was it? It was just who he was, what he was: a Vulcan. His childhood hadn't been full of playgrounds and bike rides and family vacations to the Wookey Hole Caves. It had been learning and rigorous training and emotionless rituals. It sounded like such an unhappy childhood that inevitably led to a lonely adulthood.

Molly's smile turned sad. _Why couldn't you have been born under a different star?_

 _SWISH!_

Molly quickly pulled away from the bed, smoothly placing her hands back into her lap as she looked up.

* * *

 _SWISH!_

John stepped into Sherlock's room, his eyes rising from the floor to see Molly placing her hands in her lap.

Molly smiled enthusiastically at him. "John! Hi!"

John's eyes darted all over her and Sherlock's body as he smiled back.

 _Trying too hard…_ said Sherlock in contemplation before groaning. _God help me. She was holding my hand again._

 _Self-control slipping a bit, there?_ asked john as he felt the echo of attraction towards Molly.

Ignoring John's comment, Sherlock continued. _Good God, Molly, what are you doing to me?_

His smile widening at his friend's predicament, John stepped forward. "Hi. He doing okay?"

"Same as the past week," Molly told him, looking down at their friend. She looked back up at John as he took a seat next to her. "So, only two weeks left. Looking forward to it?"

"Absolutely," voiced John.

 _Absolutely,_ thought Sherlock.

"Then I'll be able to shower without wondering if Sherlock's peeking," John muttered.

 _I resent that,_ Sherlock told him as Molly burst into laughter.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Molly. "How _are_ you two dealing with that?"

"Supposedly, Sherlock goes into his mind palace," John told her.

 _I_ _ **do**_ _,_ said Sherlock.

"How does he know when you're done?" asked Molly.

"Yeah, how _do_ you know?" asked John, his eyes trailing off into space.

 _I peek,_ Sherlock replied.

"What?" John exclaimed.

As though sensing how that had just come out, Sherlock then spoke in a slow, exact tone. _And by "peek," I mean listen in and deduce where you are and what you're doing._

Embarrassed by the conclusion he had jumped to, John spoke in a quiet voice. "Oh."

Molly's brows rose. "Well?"

John looked at her, shrugging. "He has his methods."

Molly shook her head with a smile. "You're getting just as bad as him."

 _She makes it sound like a bad thing,_ Sherlock said.

"It is," John told him.

"What?" asked Molly.

As Sherlock spoke again, John waved dismissively at Molly to indicate that he hadn't been talking to her. Molly nodded in understanding.

 _Why?_ asked Sherlock.

"It's bad enough there's already one of you," John teased his friend, chuckling a little. He waited for Sherlock's retort, but it never came. "Sherlock?"

Still nothing.

Worried that he'd hurt his friend's feelings but not wanting to embarrass him further, John tired a different track. _Sherlock, I'm sorry if I offended you._

More silence.

Shooting a worried glance over at Molly, John opened his mouth to say more.

A weary groan sounded in his head. _W-what?_

John let out a sigh of relief. _There you are. Are you okay?_

 _Hmm?_ Sherlock said, sounding distracted. _Yeah, I'm…I'm fine._

 _You sure?_

 _Yes. I must've spaced out._

John gave Molly a reassured smile. "He spaced out." He paused, stifling a yawn. "Sorry. Bit tired all of a sudden. I think I'm gonna go lay down for a bit." He stood from his seat.

"All right," said Molly. "See you at dinner."

John nodded as he turned and headed out the door. _And you're gonna get some sleep, too._

 _Why?_ asked Sherlock, his voice faint. _I don't have a body that needs sleep._

 _How many times do I have to tell you?_ John replied. _It's not the body that needs sleep, it's the mind._

 _Well, I…have…_ Sherlock was silent for a moment before his faint voice came back. _What was I saying?_

 _See, you need sleep. Tell me you_ have _slept sometime in the past two and a half months._

 _Of course. I'm not suicidal._

 _Well, you and I are gonna get some sleep._

 _Fine._

John headed off towards his quarters, shaking away the drowsiness that was quickly falling upon him.

* * *

 **Uh, oh! What's happening now?**


	19. Chapter 19

Okay, guys. Help me out here. I know the major storylines I want to do in each chapter, but I'm having trouble getting filler scenes. Is there anything you guys would like to see happen before they get to Vulcan?


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Eighteen

 **So sorry for the wait. I thought I would have time during class lectures to write my chapters, but all but one of the classes is turning out to be pretty hands-on. But I am well into the next chapter, so it shouldn't be long.**

* * *

"—which could only have been the sister," said John, closing the case file and tossing it onto the table in front of Greg. "Obvious."

"The sister?" exclaimed Greg, pulling the file over to look at it himself. "I _knew_ I should have interviewed her again."

"And you didn't?" frowned John. "You're supposed to be a detective, Greg."

Greg gave a double-take, raising his brows at him. "You're really starting to sound like him, you know."

"I know," said John without much change of demeanor. "You have another one?"

Greg let the file fall with his hands to the tabletop. "There's only four cold cases left and three weeks to go. You're waiting."

John's head tilted a little to the side. "I'll let you know next—There's no way you could know next week's lottery numbers. We're nine lightyears from Earth, you git."

John had not paused once as he spoke, moving flawlessly from Sherlock to himself. It made Greg smile.

"Well, thanks for the assist," said Greg, flipping the file closed. "I better go tell Donovan." He stood from his seat, heading for the door.

" _Happy_ to help, Lestrade," said John, once again taken over by Sherlock. He turned, quickly striding towards the doorway. "Now, if you don't mind, I have an appoint—"

The next moment, it was as though John had been roughly shoved. He just jolted on his feet and went straight to the floor.

"John!" Greg exclaimed, rushing forward.

John was still for a moment before he groaned a little and turned onto his back.

Greg knelt next to him as the doctor sat up. "Easy, easy."

"Ugh," John grunted as he put a hand to his head.

"What happened?" asked Greg.

"I think I tripped," John replied. He turned his head to look at Greg, but then winced and groaned again. "And hit my head, I think. That's one mother of a headache."

"You gonna be okay?" asked Greg.

"I think so," John said as he got himself to his feet. "It's fading now."

"All right," said Greg, standing as well. "Call for help if you need it."

John nodded and headed out into the hallway, making an assessment of his physical state as he walked. Nothing seemed to be hurting except for his faint headache, which meant that he couldn't have hit his head that hard.

"Thank goodness," John mumbled to himself. "Head trauma is the last thing we need right now."

He continued on towards the medical bay to meet Molly, not giving the episode a second thought. He really should have paid more attention to the fact that Sherlock had not spoken since that fall.

* * *

John stepped into the corridor leading to the medical rooms.

"John!"

John turned to see Molly walking towards him at the other end of the hall. "Molly. Good morning?"

"Yes," Molly answered as she caught up and walked next to him. "You?"

"Fine," said John. "We solved a cold case this morning."

"Oh, great!" Molly said with a smile. "Keeping him occupied, then?"

"As much as I can," said John as they reached Sherlock's room.

The door opened with a _SWISH_ , and John froze in his tracks. The bed was empty. As the panic began to spike, John's widened eyes swept the room and landed on a tall, lean figure standing at the room's window. John's hand went out to stop Molly as she stepped into the doorway next to him. Sherlock's body was standing at the window, staring out at the stars zipping past them. When his head would turn enough that John could see the side of his face, the wonderstruck look of amazement on Sherlock's face made him smile. John looked at Molly, who looked back at him with the same look a woman has upon finding their pet cat curled up next to them on the couch.

Knowing how annoyed Sherlock would be that this look of fawning adorableness was directed at him, John looked away and stepped into the room. They quietly sat down in the two chairs, not wanting to startle their patient. Molly opened the book she had brought with her and began reading. After watching the figure next to them at the window continue to star at the stars, John pulled out some notes on a recent experiment and began going over them.

After fifteen minutes or so, John became aware of movement by the window. Sherlock's body had turned around, staring about the room with childlike amazement. John slowly closed the notes and rested one elbow on the arm of the chair, bringing his hand to his mouth as he watched. Sherlock's eyes took in the walls, the ceiling, the bed, the chairs, and that was when his gaze fell on Molly. His head tilted to the side a little as his eyes danced up and down over her.

John smiled as Sherlock slowly stepped closer to her chair, a faint smile appearing on the keen face. Molly's chair being faced away from him, she had not taken notice of this…yet. Sherlock's eyes stared almost awestruck at the woman in front of him.

 _John, wipe that ridiculous smile off of my face before she sees it,_ Sherlock spoke up.

John smirked. _It's not like she thinks_ _ **you're**_ _in there._

 _John!_ Sherlock told him.

John's smile widened as he lifted the notes from his lap and let them fall to the floor with a loud slap, which succeeded in causing Sherlock's body to flinch and look up at him, the smile fading in an instant. Molly also looked up at the noise as John started to speak.

"Well, look who's joined us."

Molly glanced up behind her to see Sherlock staring at John. "Oh, hello! Enjoying the stars, are we?"

Sherlock's gaze switched over to her, staring down at her, the smile once again starting to make an appearance.

 _John!_ Sherlock nearly hissed.

John stood from his chair, drawing Sherlock's attention back to him. "Come on, mate. Enough adventure for one day. Best get you back to bed." He stepped over towards Sherlock and gently grasped his arm.

Sherlock's eyes traveled down to the hand on his arm as it began pulling him forwards. His feet began shuffling as John gently pulled him back towards the bed. As he moved around Molly's chair, his gaze moved back to her, that wonderstruck look starting to appear in his eyes again.

 _John!_ Sherlock warned yet again.

 _I got it!_ John shot back at him. "Hey, Molly, could you get some water?"

"Sure," Molly replied as she stood and scooted by Sherlock, who watched her go.

"All right, big guy," said John, turning Sherlock to face him as they reached the bed. "Let's get you down here."

 _Big guy?_ said Sherlock with disdain in his voice. _My mind was erased, John. I'm not a child._

"You might as well be," said John as he eased his friend's body down onto the bed.

Sherlock didn't respond after that, so John rolled his eyes.

"Here you go," said Molly, appearing at John's side with a small glass of water.

"Ta," muttered John, reaching over for it.

As Molly passed the cup to him, John suddenly found that his fingers wouldn't respond to him. The cup slid from his weakly clenching hand and to the floor with a clatter. Sherlock's body hissed in shock as the cold water splashed over his feet.

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, stopping to pick up the glass. "I'm sorry!"

"No, no, it's my fault," John told her as he grabbed a towel from the counter and knelt to soak up the water. "I don't know what happened. I guess I must be tired."

"Well, go on and rest," said Molly. "I'll take it from here."

"You sure?" asked John.

"Yeah, I'll see you at dinner. Or maybe back here tomorrow if you're still sleeping."

John nodded. "Fair enough." He handed the towel off to Molly and stood, heading towards the door. "Come on, you great drama queen. Time for bed."

Molly laughed her adorable little giggle that never failed to send a warm rush through his veins, but this time—surprisingly—there was nothing.

John allowed the door to slide shut behind him before speaking. "Thank you for finally detaching your feelings for Molly. A lot less embarrassing that way."

No response. Honestly, John should have been more unnerved by the recurring silent spells of Sherlock's than he was.

But, then again, hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

* * *

 **Now, I know this one is short, but it was the prefect spot to stop the chapter.**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Nineteen

 **I know the format is a bit confusing at first, but stick with it.**

* * *

"John!" Molly exclaimed, rushing towards the bed. "John!"

John would not respond.

Molly reached out and shook the doctor's shoulder. "John, wake up!" She looked back at Greg as the inspector hurried up next to her. "What do we do?"

Greg knelt on the edge of the bed. "John!" He raised his hand and slapped at John's face. "John!"

John's eyes shuttered open, and his gaze stared blearily up at them.

"John!" Molly responded, surging closer. "What's wrong?"

"Don't…" John's voice came out in barely a whisper. He took a short breath. "Don't know… Tired…" His eyes began falling shut again.

"Hey, hey!" said Greg, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. "Stay with us! Does Sherlock know?"

John stared up at him for a moment before his eyes widened as much as they could in his exhausted state. "I… No… I…"

"John?" asked Molly. "What did Sherlock say?"

John's head quickly, yet weakly, began to shake back and forth, his voice a shaky whisper. "I can't feel him… He's gone…"

Molly's eyes shot open in horror as Greg sat back in shock.

* * *

Sherlock's voice interrupted him. _Wait, so, you went to sleep after visiting me, and then I was just gone?_

John sighed from his seat in his quarters. "Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start over."

* * *

John stepped into his quarters, heading straight for the bed and taking a seat. "Hey, you okay in there? You've been awful quiet lately."

 _Go away,_ Sherlock replied in a soft voice. _Too tired._

John smirked. "You and me both." He bent over to untie his shoes.

* * *

 _I remember that,_ Sherlock spoke up. _In fact, it was the last thing I remember._

"I wondered when you had faded off," said John.

* * *

Tossing his shoes aside, John collapsed onto the bed, barely having enough strength to pull the blanket over him.

* * *

"They found me the next afternoon," said John. "But sometime in the middle there, I woke up."

* * *

John's eyes blinked open, and he stared up at the ceiling. He wondered what time it was, but found that he couldn't be bothered to check the clock on the bedside table.

"Damn…" John muttered. "I must not have gotten a lot of sleep." He tried to raise his hand to rub at his eyes, but he was just too tired. "How about you?"

Sherlock didn't respond; there was only the silence of a dark room. And a loneliness, one that he couldn't explain. Why would he be lonely?

"Still sleeping, hmm?" John muttered, giving a yawn. "Sounds great…" He didn't even remember drifting off.

* * *

 _Why did they come looking for you?_ asked Sherlock.

"According to Molly, I wasn't answering the com calls," John explained.

* * *

Molly stepped into the mess hall, finding Greg enjoying an afternoon tea. She stepped over to him. "Have you seen John?"

Greg looked up at her, taking in her drawn brows and thin mouth. "You okay?"

"John was supposed to meet me at Sherlock's quarters after breakfast," Molly explained. "He looked exhausted yesterday, so I figured I'd let him sleep some more, but…" she sighed, wringing her hands in front of her, "I'm worried."

Greg shook his head as he leaned back in his seat. "Haven't seen him. Did you check the rec room?"

"And the engine room and the medical facilities and a dozen other places," said Molly. She raised a hand and wrapped it around the back of her neck. "What if something happened?"

"Hold on," said Greg as he stood, grasping her shoulders. "We still have other options. Don't panic." He walked over to the communication panel on the wall, pressing a button. "Mycroft."

A moment passed before the button lit up once more. _"Inspector Lestrade."_

"Is John with you?" Greg asked.

" _No, he is not,"_ Mycroft responded.

"We can't find him," Molly jumped in. "Something's happened, I know it."

" _One moment,"_ Mycroft replied.

Molly huffed in impatience before Mycroft's voice came back over the panel's speaker.

" _Dr. Watson, please contact the dining area or my personal quarters."_

There was silence as they waited for John to respond to the ship-wide call.

" _Dr. Watson, please respond."_

Another while of silence before Mycroft spoke again.

" _The computer shows him as being located in his quarters."_

Molly immediately bolted out the door, so Greg pressed the com button. "Thanks, Mycroft."

Greg charged after Molly, and within five minutes, they had arrived in the residence corridor.

"He could be perfectly fine," Greg reminded her. "Caught up in the violin or an experiment. He disabled his com panel, remember?"

Molly nodded as they reached John's door, and she knocked on it. "John? John, are you in there? John, I need you to answer me!"

There was no response, so Molly slid her hand over the access panel. The doors slid open as the lights sprang on. John lay immobile on the bed, pale and wane as his chest rose in jerks and tiny spasms.

"John!" Molly exclaimed, rushing towards the bed. "John!"

John would not respond.

Molly reached out and shook the doctor's shoulder. "John, wake up!" She looked back at Greg as the inspector hurried up next to her. "What do we do?"

Greg knelt on the edge of the bed. "John!" He raised his hand and slapped at John's face. "John!"

John's eyes shuttered open, and his gaze stared blearily up at them.

"John!" Molly responded, surging closer. "What's wrong?"

"Don't…" John's voice came out in barely a whisper. He took a short breath. "Don't know… Tired…" His eyes began falling shut again.

"Hey, hey!" said Greg, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. "Stay with us! Does Sherlock know?"

John stared up at him for a moment before his eyes widened as much as they could in his exhausted state. "I… No… I…"

"John?" asked Molly. "What did Sherlock say?"

John's head quickly, yet weakly, began to shake back and forth, his voice a shaky whisper. "I can't feel him… He's gone…"

Molly's eyes shot open in horror as Greg sat back in shock.

"Get Mycroft…" John breathed out.

Greg raced for the com panel at the door as Molly moved further up the bed, grasping John's hand.

"Mycroft, get over here!" Greg practically yelled into the panel. "Something's wrong!"

A tear fell down Molly's face as she gripped John's hand tightly. "Can you pull him back, John?"

John's eyes were struggling to stay open. "I…I can't…"

"Oh, my God!" Molly gasped out in a high-pitched voice, bringing John's hand up to her mouth as the tears fell freely now. "Sherlock…"

Greg moved back to the bed next to Molly. "Stay with us, John."

The door to the room opened, and Mycroft entered, moving to the opposite side of the bed.

Greg had turned his head to look as he entered. "He says Sherlock's gone. What is—"

Mycroft did not look at Greg, only raised his hand for silence as he knelt next to the bed. "John."

John's eyes had fallen nearly closed.

"John," said Mycroft again, grasping John's shoulder.

John's eyelids fluttered and opened.

"John, this is very important," said Mycroft. Once John had turned hazy eyes on him, he continued. "Have you been feeling unusually tired? Has Sherlock started to space out and disappear, especially after he exerts himself, such as pushing his consciousness forward?"

All three of them looked at him in shock before John nodded his head a little.

"Then there's not a moment to lose," said Mycroft as he pulled a pre-filled syringe out of his suit. He yanked the cover off of the needle, grabbed John's arm and jabbed it into a vein below his elbow.

"Wait a minute," said Molly as Mycroft laid John's arm back on the bed. "What was that? What's happening to him?"

"Not to worry," Mycroft told them. "He'll be right as rain in a moment."

John had been fading back into unconsciousness, but at that moment, a flood of life, of **Sherlock** , rushed through him, setting his mind for a spin. Every detail, every sight, every sound in the room jumped out at him in a single moment, clamoring for attention. John let out a gasp as his back arched up from the bed, his mind exploding with activity.

And then, with a final burst of light and color, Sherlock's presence quieted. John relaxed on the bed, breathing heavily as he looked up at the others, two of which were watching him in alarm. The other, however, was smiling in satisfaction.

John pulled himself up onto his elbows. "What the bloody hell was that?"

"I take it, it worked," stated Mycroft in an almost questioning tone.

John stopped as he assessed himself and discovered, to his relief, the difference between then and now. He looked up at Mycroft. "I can feel him again."

"You can?" asked Molly, her voice filled with hope.

John looked over at her eager smile. "He's unconscious, but, yeah, he's back."

"He'll be asleep until well into tomorrow," Mycroft told them.

John sat up with a frown. "Why? What happened to us? What was that stuff?"

"There are times when, for whatever reason, the return of the katra to Mount Seleya is delayed," Mycroft explained. "Prolonged contact can cause the host's mind to begin to reject it. Usually, it doesn't begin happening for another week, but…" he gave a shrug, "well, Sherlock just has to be Sherlock." He held up the empty syringe. "This serum was devised to strengthen the bond between the katra and its host. Once he wakes up again, everything should be back to normal." He began moving towards the door.

"Thanks, Mycroft," said John.

Mycroft looked back at him with a nod and then left.

* * *

"So, we went to check on your body, which was fine, by the way," John explained. "And now, everything's fine."

 _Did you enjoy the quiet the past day?_ Sherlock asked him.

John shrugged as his fingers fiddled with the edge of his shirt. "It was a bit…lonely…"

John could practically feel the smug smirk. _Admit it, you missed me._

"Missed what? The incessant observations? The lack of control over myself? The constant chatter?"

 _Oh, it's not that bad._

John laughed as he got to his feet. "No, it's not. Cold case?"

 _Oh, please._

John nodded and headed out into the corridor, smiling as he thought back to what he had left out of his story.

* * *

Molly leaned back in her seat next to Sherlock's bed in the medical bay. She looked over at John. "Feeling better?"

John nodded. "Much. Blimey, I'll tell ya, that serum sure kicks in quick. It was like diving right into Sherlock's brain. Everything was so vivid and active all of a sudden. It was… surreal." He stared down at Sherlock's body with a small frown.

"What is it?" asked Molly.

"It doesn't feel real, does it?" said John, looking back at her. "I mean, here we are, in outer space, with Sherlock's resurrected body right in front of us," he gestured over at the sleeping man, "and it still feels like he's not really here." He looked sadly down at the floor. "That I'll wake up in the morning, and this will all have been a dream and he'll still be dead."

Molly nodded at that and was silent for a moment. "Well, let's be thankful it isn't a dream."

"Yeah…" said John, looking up at Sherlock's body for confirmation, however redundant, that this was real.

"It could've been the other way around," Molly spoke up after a moment. "It could've been you guys lying there instead. Well, not really. You guys aren't Vulcan, so you wouldn't have been in that probe for that energy to revive you—" She stopped herself. "Sorry, I'm rambling again."

John smiled at her. "That's all right. I guess you're right. It could've been us. And that would have been a much worse ending."

"Good thing Sherlock realized how important it was to save you guys," said Molly, looking over at their friend's body.

John frowned before shifting in his seat. "What do you mean, realized?"

Molly looked back at him, shifting in her own seat. "Well, I just find it curious, is all. Knowing that Sherlock was a Vulcan, why would Moriarty threaten people he knew to get him to kill himself? Sure, he's half human, but he's also half Vulcan. He feels little, if any, emotion." She frowned as she looked at Sherlock. "Why would Moriarty think he would sacrifice himself to save his friends?"

John's frown deepened as he listened to what Molly believed Sherlock had gone through on that roof. "So…you think what Sherlock did on the rooftop was because of logic?"

Molly looked back at him. "Well, he's said so himself. Vulcans don't do emotions." She looked back at Sherlock's body, as if that was the end of the conversation.

John looked at Molly and then over at Sherlock, biting his lip as a thought came into his head. He hesitated, knowing Sherlock would get very upset at what he was about to do. _Well, it's not like he's conscious right now to hear it._

John leaned forward, placing his elbows onto his legs. "You know, Vulcans used to have emotions."

Molly looked over at him, nodding. "Yeah, he mentioned something about that; they used to have emotions, but they gave them up to better their race."

John nodded, glancing at Sherlock momentarily. "Well, I'm not sure how much he was able to tell you about Vulcan history before he died, but Vulcans used to feel emotions so much deeper than humans ever have. In fact, it almost caused their extinction."

Molly nodded, indicating that she had indeed heard this.

"So, over the years, they learned how to cast it off," John went on. "They evolved, basically. Now, they feel very little emotions, if any at all." He glanced over at his friend's body, hesitating a moment. "Sherlock, on the other hand…is half human, which means he can choose whether to let his human side—his emotions—in. And he chooses to be Vulcan."

Molly's brows drew together in confusion, looking over at Sherlock. "Why?" She looked back at John as she gestured to the bed. "I mean, he told me that sometimes, he would love to feel how everyone else does. Why would he push that away if he had a choice?"

John frowned over at her, his head tilting a little to the side as he realized. "He didn't tell you, did he?"

"Tell me what?"

John rubbed a hand over his lip before dropping it to his lap once more. "When the Vulcan Science Academy commissioned Sherlock for this observation mission, they gave him twenty years in which to do it, at the end of which he was to leave Earth and return home."

Molly's eyes widened as her jaw dropped open a little, clearly shocked at the thought of having to say goodbye to Sherlock forever someday.

"Sherlock chooses to be Vulcan so it will be easier to say goodbye," John went on. "And I think that over the years, those Vulcan walls have… crumbled a bit."

Molly looked up at him, the shock still written all over her face.

"Now, I'm not sure how much he does feel, but…" John looked over at Sherlock, "I believe Sherlock Holmes feels much more than he lets on." He glanced back over at Molly with a smile.

Molly stared at John for a while before looking over at Sherlock's body in a way she hadn't in months.

* * *

John smiled as he reached the common room. If he had anything to say about it, he would get the two of them together if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

 **In case any of you were confused, it basically cut back and forth from John telling Sherlock what had happened the past day, to what actually happened.**


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty

John stepped into the dining room, where Greg and Molly were already seated and enjoying their lunch.

Molly looked up at him as he sat down next to her. "Hey, how's Mrs. Hudson doing?"

John got himself comfortable. "Good. Sends her love. I…kind of left out the whole 'I almost lost Sherlock' part."

Greg nodded in agreement. "How's London holding up without the great Sherlock Holmes?"

 _I'm not_ _ **that**_ _narcissistic,_ Sherlock complained.

John smiled. "Well, the chaos around Sherlock and Moriarty has started to die down, but Mycroft's people started leaking information to the police and the papers that suggests Moriarty may have been real. The police reopened the case. Sherlock's name should be cleared by the time we get back."

"Well, that's a relief, eh, Sherlock?" said Greg.

John's arms shifted from where they lay folded together on the edge of the table in front of him and rose up in front of him as his back straightened. His hands touched each other from wrist to tip of the finger. "It would be…if I cared what other people think."

"Oh, drop the act," Molly told him. "You know you care."

Sherlock widened John's eyes as he turned his head to look at her, taken aback by the bold statement directly to his face. Even in the comfort they had built into their friendship, she had never been so courageous. It completely robbed him of any response he might have had.

"I think you broke him," Greg muttered to Molly after a moment of staring.

John, meanwhile, was doing a little happy dance in his head for this new side of Molly. His evil plan was working.

 _How did she know…_ Sherlock wondered before totally disengaging from the driver's seat.

John jolted a little at suddenly having control again. "Whoa…" He sat still for a moment, trying to feel what had happened, before looking at them. "I think he went into his mind palace."

"Is he okay?" asked Molly, concern in her voice.

John looked over at Greg, who shared an amused smile with him. "Oh, he's gonna be just fine."

The doors of the dining area opened, and Team Beta entered, talking animatedly amongst themselves.

Nimoy led the other two towards the table next to them. "And then she just grabbed the bag and ran for it!"

Koenig and Doohan laughed with her as they all sat down.

"She didn't even try to deny it?" asked Doohan.

"Not at all!" Nimoy responded.

John exchanged looks with Greg and Molly, amused by the crew's jovial mood.

"My God, what a freak!" Koenig laughed.

John froze in his seat as the three crewmembers continued laughing. The smile instantly vanished from his face, morphing into a thin line. His eyes stared down at the table as voices echoed in his head.

" _You're not normal."_

" _A freak."_

" _Freak."_

" _He's not one of us."_

" _FREAK."_

John wasn't sure why he was reacting like this or what exactly was causing him to react like this, but he did not like it at all.

"John?" asked Molly.

All of a sudden, John found himself shunted aside as his body rose and strode quickly towards the door, heading down the corridor and into the rec room.

 _Sherlock?_ John asked, worried for his friend.

Sherlock headed over towards the viewing windows, his hands gripping the edge of it as he breathed heavily.

John let his friend react however he needed to before trying again. _Sherlock…_

Sherlock took a great, shuddering breath, his hands loosening their grip somewhat.

John tried once more. _Was it because they said f—_

"Don't say it," Sherlock said firmly with John's mouth, his voice tense and slightly loud.

John stayed silent for a moment before replying. _Sorry._

Sherlock let out another breath, clenching his eyes once before letting go of the window. "It's not your fault. I overreacted."

 _No, you didn't,_ John told him. _That word upset you. You reacted like anyone else would have._

"But not a Vulcan," Sherlock retorted in an instant.

And suddenly, the voices John had heard made sense. _Is that what it is? You acted too human, so everyone made fun of you for it?_

Sherlock paused for a long while before turning and sitting on one of the sofas. "The first time I heard the word, I was six years old." He closed John's eyes, blocking the rest of the world out.

A memory began playing.

 _He climbed up the pile of rocks, finally reaching the nest perched on top. It was fascinating. All the things the Lara bird collected to make its home…_

 _After cataloguing every item, he turned and bounded down the rocks, landing at the bottom with a smile on his face._

" _Look at him."_

 _He glanced up to see three schoolmates standing in front of him, each of them with a blank, emotionless look on their faces._

" _You have to see this," he told them. "There's a Lara bird nest up there. You wouldn't believe—"_

" _He smiles," said one of the boys, Maerin._

" _He feels happy," said another, Sylok._

 _His smile began to fade as they talked._

" _He's so…human," said the third, Nunor._

 _Maerin took a step towards him. "You're not normal. You're an aberration."_

 _Nunor joined him. "They have a word for people like you."_

 _Sylok stepped forward as well. "A freak."_

" _Your mother should have thrown you into The Forge the moment you were born," said Nunor. "You and your father, the human animal."_

 _His eyes burned as his heart felt like it would burst at any moment. Was he really that much of a monster? Surely, he had to be or else, why would they say such things._

" _Look, he's crying," said Maerin. "His human side is nothing but a weakness."_

" _Freak," said Nunor as they all turned and walked away._

 _Eyes blurring with tears, he slowly slumped to the ground, wrapping his arms around his legs and hugging them to his chest._

Darkness flooded John's mind as voices echoed through it.

" _You will never be Vulcan."_

" _He looks repulsive."_

" _Freak."_

" _Why does he smile?"_

" _Freak."_

" _He's not one of us."_

" _Freak."_

" _Freak."_

" _FREAK."_

The darkness vanished as he opened his eyes to the starship's rec room.

"That is how I learned that in order to fit in, I had to cast aside my humanity," Sherlock stated through John's voice. "Emotions, sentiment, attachments—anything that made me _weak_." He spoke the last word with obvious disdain.

John was quiet for a while, reeling from the feelings the memory dredged up. _So, that's why you never get along with Donovan._

"We were fine until she called me freak after I showed her up at the crime scene," Sherlock told him. "In retaliation, I exposed her affair with Anderson, and…well…"

 _She's resented you ever since,_ John finished.

"Exactly," said Sherlock.

 _But she hasn't called you that since the mind meld,_ John pointed out. He could feel Sherlock smile in approval. _You planted that memory, didn't you?_

"A smart man takes every opportunity he can get," said Sherlock.

John laughed as Sherlock joined in. _That explains the apology._

"Apology?" asked Sherlock.

 _When Donovan called about the satanic homicide, she apologized right before she called the brother a…a freak. She was apologizing to you._

 **(Author's note: The apology wasn't in the original chapter. I didn't realize that Donovan said the word freak until I wrote this, so now, Donovan apologizes towards the camera before approaching the brother and calling him a freak.)**

"Yes," said Sherlock. "I'm afraid I transferred some of those childhood feelings along with the memory."

 _We're not gonna see her start acting like you, are we?_ John asked.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't let that happen," said Sherlock.

 _I'm just special, is that it?_ John asked.

"Not special, no," Sherlock replied. "I just saved it all for you."

John began laughing as Sherlock did as well, just as the doors on the other side of the room opened, admitting Greg and Molly.

Greg frowned as the laughing man. "John, you okay?"

"Sorry, John's unavailable at the moment," Sherlock replied. "Too busy being special."

John burst into laughter in his head, which caused Sherlock to laugh as well.

Greg looked at Molly. "Never thought I'd say this, but I think John's a bad influence on him."

Sherlock finally let go of the reins, allowing John forward.

John stood from the sofa and approached them. "Actually, I think it's mutual."

"You two okay?" Molly asked, still concerned about how they had stormed out of the dining area.

"Yeah, he's fine," John said with a nod. "Just had to get away from those crewmembers."

"Brought up bad memories, didn't it?" asked Molly.

John stared at her, part confused and part astonished. "What?"

"That word," Molly elaborated. "He doesn't like it, does he?"

John was at a loss for words, which was probably more Sherlock than him. How had she figured it out?

"Hey, I know a thing or two," Molly told him, correctly interpreting the look on his face.

"You're amazing…" John blurted before his expression froze.

 _Damn!_ Sherlock exclaimed.

 _You owe me,_ John told him in a hard tone before allowing the blush threatening to appear to bloom across his face. "Sorry, I, erm…I-I didn't mean to say that. I mean, you are amazing. Of course you are. I just—"

Molly placed a hand on her arm, calming him. "It's okay, John." A blush appeared on her own face as she admitted her next thought. "I've been there." She turned and strode into the corridor, leaving the two men alone.

Greg stared at John in realization. "You mean, it was _you_? You like Molly?"

"No, I was just covering for Sherlock," said John.

 _Traitor!_ Sherlock shouted.

"Oh, 'traitor,' eh?" said John. "Bit strong, isn't it?"

"Bit touchy, isn't he?" said Greg with a teasing smile.

"Sod off," burst out of John's mouth, accompanied by a scowl.

"Ooh-ooh!" laughed Greg.

John stood there for a moment, waiting, before giving Greg a smirk. "I think he just slammed the door of his mind palace."

" _Dr. Watson."_

John stepped over to the com panel, pressing one of the buttons. "Yes?"

" _You are needed on the bridge."_

"On my way," John told them. He looked back at Greg. "Catch you later."

Greg nodded as John made his way out, heading up the turbolift and onto the bridge.

Mycroft stood from the captain's chair and walked over to him. "There is a message for Sherlock from Vulcan. It's his parents."

John nodded. "Right." _Hey, Sherlock, wanna take the lead here?_

There was no response.

Rolling his eyes, John looked back up at Mycroft. "One moment."

As Mycroft gave a nod, John turned and sat at a console at the back of the bridge. He closed his eyes as he concentrated.

 _Sherlock?_

Still no response.

 _Sherlock, come on. Your parents would like to talk to you._

John waited a moment as silence met him. He gave a sigh before delving deeper, searching for Sherlock. It was a strange sensation, going through one's mind in search of someone else. He wasn't even sure where to look or even how. All he could do was probe his consciousness.

And there it was: a hole.

John blinked, frowning around at the room he was standing in.

 _What the bloody hell just happened?_

One minute, he was sitting on the bridge of the _T'Lana Hamac_ , trying to find Sherlock, and the next, he was…here. Wherever here was.

He was standing in the foyer of a spacious, luxurious house, almost a mansion. There were black and white, tiled marble floors. And crown molding. And stained glass windows. Elegant, winding grand staircase. Oak banisters. Crystal chandelier.

"Hello?" John called out, his voice echoing around the room. He took a step further into the foyer, passing into the living room. "Anyone here?"

Finding no one in there or the dining room (or any of the other five rooms on the ground floor), he moved back to the foyer, climbing the grand staircase. The first floor appeared to be full of corridors, doors lining the walls. It seemed to be impossible how many corridors and doors there were.

John stepped forward and opened one, but instead of a room behind the door, it was an alley. John frowned in confusion as he poked his head inside to take a closer look. It was an alley…outdoors…at night…inside a room.

 _How is this even possible?_

He stepped further into the room, his shoes tapping on the pavement of the alley. Two men suddenly raced past him, sending him reeling. John looked up to see the two men racing towards the end of the alley, one lagging slightly behind the other. John's eyes widened in recognition just as the lead figure crashed into the bonnet of an approaching cab.

"Police! Open her up!"

John raced down the alley to see Sherlock ripping open the back door of the cab and peering inside as another John Watson stood behind him.

"No," said Sherlock, leaning down again to look at the passenger a second time. "Teeth, tan; what—Californian?" He looked at something on the floor in front of the passenger. "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived." He straightened up again, grimacing.

"How can you possibly know that?" asked the other John.

"The luggage," said Sherlock, looking down at the floor of the cab again.

John's jaw dropped. It was a memory. A memory! That must mean he was still on the bridge, in his own head. Or, rather, Sherlock's head. John glanced back down at the alley to where the door stood ajar, the door that led back to the mansion. Or…

"Palace…" said John quietly with a smile. He looked back at where he and Sherlock were standing a few yards away from the cab.

The other John lifted his head from looking at the card in his hand and silently giggled.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"Nothing, just: 'Welcome to London,'" laughed the other John.

Sherlock chuckled with him as John smiled and headed back down the alley and through the door, closing it behind him.

"Sherlock!" John called, moving on to the next door.

Opening it, he was met with the sight of the pavement in front of Bart's rushing towards him. John slammed that door closed, heart hammering. He did not need to relive _that_ memory.

John glanced back down the corridor, face falling at the sight of door upon door upon door—

John gave a great exhale. "This could take days." He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Sherlock! Could use some help here!" He waited a moment, but nothing happened. "Hope his parents are patient."

John resumed his search down the corridors. Behind each door that he checked, he found memories. Cases they had solved, arguments they had had, insults from Donovan and Anderson, reports back to the Vulcan Science Academy, experiments he had done, conversations they had had over morning tea, childhood torment he had had to endure, and so on. John was just about to give up and tell Sherlock's parents to try him later when he came across a different door.

Unlike the others, this one was set apart in the wall from the others, and it was much larger. It was a set of double doors made of what looked like the most expensive wood money could buy. And this one was adorned with a gold and crystal doorknob.

Wondering what could possibly be so special to keep behind a door like this, John turned the handle and swung it open. The first thing he took notice of was Sherlock standing in the middle, flipping through some papers. The second thing he noticed was Molly.

Instead of opening onto a memory, this door had admitted him into a ballroom-esque space. And almost everywhere he looked, there was Molly. Pictures of Molly. Portraits of Molly. Post-It notes denoting favorite color of flower. File cabinets labeled "Family history" or "Work achievements" or "Published scientific articles." The room was practically littered with everything there was to know about Molly Hooper.

John glanced over at the far side of the room, which seemed to be playing a slideshow to sorts on a huge television, showing memories of Molly. At the moment, the "camera" was staring down at Molly as she looked up into it.

" _If I wasn't everything that you think I am—everything that I think I am—would you still want to help me?"_

 _Molly gazed up at him as he stopped close to her. "What do you need?"_

 _He stepped even closer. "You."_

Those words seemed to echo through the room for a moment.

" _What do you need?"_

" _You."_

John smiled as he looked back at Sherlock, who had stopped flipping through papers to watch the cherished memory. "Well, it's good to know you really _aren't_ aware of your surroundings when you're in your mind palace."

Sherlock had jumped when John spoke, turning towards him in a flurry of falling papers. "John?"

John's smile widened. "Nice place you got here."

Sherlock quickly strode towards him. "Yes, lovely. Get out." He shoved John out the doors and closed them behind him. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," John told him. "Your parents are calling."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, dear Lord."

John glanced back at the doors behind Sherlock. "So, this is where you go when you're upset with me."

Sherlock glanced down the corridor, avoiding his eyes.

"Oh, not just when you're upset," John realized. "More often? When you're working cases?"

Sherlock looked down at his feet.

"Wait, really?" asked John. "So, when you're holed up in your mind palace supposedly solving the case, you're actually in there?" He gestured at the Molly room.

"Not all the time. Just when I get frustrated that I can't see the solution. It helps."

"How?"

"She calms my mind," Sherlock replied.

John nodded, looking away.

"So, my parents?" asked Sherlock, starting to turn away.

"Wait a minute, can't we just enjoy this?" said John.

Sherlock frowned as he turned back. "Enjoy what?"

"This," said John. "You and me, talking."

"We talk all the time."

"Yeah, but this is different. We're finally face-to-face."

Sherlock frowned. "John, this isn't face-to-face. I'm a figment of your imagination."

"Technically, you're a figment of _your_ imagination," John pointed out. "And, yes, technically, we're still in my head, but I want to enjoy it because this is the most normal our conversations have been since you died."

That sentence hung in the air for a moment before the absurdity of the conversation finally settled in, and they both started laughing.

"Come on, let's not keep my parents waiting," Sherlock finally said after mostly composing himself. "Got your breath back?"

Reminded of that first memory he had stumbled upon, John smiled. "Ready when you are."

Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder.

John's eyes opened as he stood from the console on the bridge. _I'll give you guys a moment._ And he handed control over to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned John's body to face the front of the bridge, and John was surprised to see that only a few moments had passed since he sat down.

"On screen," Sherlock told Nichols.

Nichols pressed a button on the communications console, and the view screen was filled with the image of Sherlock's parents all those months ago. The only difference being that Sherlock's mother now held an infant boy in her arms, the baby's ears pointed like his mother's.

"Sherlock," greeted Ainok.

"Mother." Sherlock turned John's eyes towards Thomas. "Father."

* * *

 **Yes, I stopped it there. You guys don't want to read Sherlock's conversation with his parents any more than I wanted to write it (I hope).**


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-One

 **I wish I could get these out faster for you guys. I'm writing as fast as I can with honors program and college graduation approaching next semester.**

 **Anything familiar in the following chapter is taken from "Search for Spock" and the novelization of it. I don't own anything Star Trek or Sherlock related.**

* * *

John closed his eyes as the music flowed over him. The vibrato of the strings hummed through him, filling the room around him. His fingers moved effortlessly as they danced over the strings. He had never felt more at peace in his entire life. He cherished these moments when Sherlock felt compelled to take up his violin. He had always enjoyed the sound of a violin, but now…It just calmed his mind like nothing else could. He supposed that was more Sherlock than him.

With a final pull of the bow, John savored the last note before lowering the bow.

 _You're on sparkling form, John,_ Sherlock told him.

"Well, it's really all you, isn't it?" John pointed out.

 _The inspiration and knowledge, maybe, but it's_ _ **your**_ _hands._

John smiled as he lowered the violin to his side and placed the bow on the table in his room. "Can you believe it's almost over? I feel like we've been stuck like this forever."

 _Am I really that bad?_ Sherlock asked.

"No." John lifted the violin slightly, smiling down at it. "Just taxing."

 _You seem to really enjoy the violin, John,_ Sherlock told him.

"Yeah, well, it—"

— _calms you down,_ Sherlock finished. _I know the feeling._

"It really does help you, doesn't it?" John carefully set the violin down on the table. "Well, I promise to never complain about it again now that I know how frantic your mind actually gets."

 _I appreciate it._

John opened the case resting on the bed and proceeded to put the instrument away. "I just wanted to play it one last time."

 _Don't sound so final about it. I'll let you borrow it back at Baker Street._

"Me play the violin?" John laughed a bit. "Yeah, right."

 _Stranger things have happened._

John smiled as he flipped the latches on the case shut. "Don't I know it."

" _Dr. Watson to the bridge."_

John glanced up at the panel that had just emitted the message and then back down at the violin case. "Here we go." He grabbed the violin and his two bags and headed out the door.

* * *

John took his seat next to Mycroft, Molly and Greg at the back of the bridge. Nearly the entire crew had gathered on the bridge as they drew nearer. On the view screen, a small red dot had appeared in the midst of the black expanse of space, growing larger by the second.

"Slow to impulse power on my command," Tairok ordered.

"You ready?" asked Molly.

John looked over at her. "Oh, yeah. More than ready. Although, I will miss the brainpower."

Molly laughed, her eyes lighting up. John smiled as Sherlock let out a wistful sigh in his head.

 _Dammit, John, your emotions are going to be the end of me._

 _Technically, they're_ _ **your**_ _emotions,_ John countered. _I just let them out for some fresh air._

 _Exactly,_ Sherlock flung at him.

 _Enjoy it while it lasts, Sherlock,_ John told him. _You're not going to have it much longer, remember?_

Silence met that statement before John felt the emotion swell within him. He hadn't felt an emotion of love this strong since Sherlock had shown him how he truly felt for Molly. The feeling was so intense that he let out a rush of breath before pulling it quickly back in. John immediately let out a cough to disguise it; he wasn't about to interrupt Sherlock's final human indulgence.

John stared at Molly a little longer, letting Sherlock gaze on her as long as seemed appropriate, before he looked back towards the view screen.

As the red sphere began to fill the screen, Tairok gave the order.

"Now."

The engines whined down in their frequency as the planet before them slowed its apparent approach and slowly filled the screen.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Tairok announced as he stood from his seat and stepped forwards a bit, "welcome to Vulcan."

The planet looked about the size of Earth to John, but how could you really tell from a spaceship? But he could see that it was red and dusty. If John didn't know any better, he'd think they were about to land on Mars.

As he watched, the planet's surface grew closer, and he could make out features such as mountains and plateaus. A lone peak surrounded by a canyon appeared on the screen, slowly tracking across it.

"This is Mount Seleya," Tairok told them, a hint of respect and awe in his voice. "This is where the ritual will be performed."

Mount Seleya moved across the screen as the ground grew closer. As they moved over to a flat area obviously used as a landing pad, the ground moved closer, and their thrusters began kicking up red dust. The next moment, there was a soft thud and the sound of the engines winding down.

Tairok turned and looked at John. "Dr. Watson, if you will follow me." He nodded at the bags gathered at the back of the bridge. "Your things will be taken to your lodgings."

John nodded as Tairok stepped towards the doors. He looked at his friends momentarily before standing and following the Vulcan.

Tairok led him down to the hallway outside of Sherlock's medical room and turned to him. "Dr. Watson…John…"

John perked up slightly; the Vulcan had only ever addressed him by his proper title.

"Are you truly prepared to do this?" Tairok asked him.

John instantly nodded. "Of course."

"Think carefully over this," Tairok warned him. "This ritual has not been performed for decades—centuries, really—and certainly not on one such as Sherlock. It may not work, and if it does, it could leave you with considerable damage."

John took a breath, not moving his gaze from Tairok's face. "Sherlock gave up everything for me. I owe him nothing less."

Tairok's chin raised in respect. "A statement worthy of a Vulcan. You would have fit in well among our people." He turned and opened the door, heading inside.

John stepped inside the room, seeing that Sherlock's body lay asleep on the bed.

"He should sleep the rest of the time," Tairok explained. "We will carry him to Mount Seleya, where the high priestess will attempt to return his katra to his body. Should the ritual succeed, Sherlock will wake, but it will take several minutes—perhaps even hours or days—for him to return to his normal self."

"One hour, tops," Sherlock spoke up through John's voice.

Tairok's head tilted slightly in recognition of the change in personality. "That may be a possibility, considering your advanced awareness."

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered.

The doors slid open again, and Mycroft entered, followed by Greg and Molly.

"Everyone ready?" asked Mycroft.

John slid back into the driver seat. "As we'll ever be."

Mycroft looked back at a couple of his crew members and nodded. The two men moved into the room, lugging a cot between them and placing it on the floor next to Sherlock's bed. John moved forward and detached the IV line from Sherlock's arm and then gently grasped hold of Sherlock's arms, his hands sliding under Sherlock's shoulders. Greg grabbed hold of Sherlock's feet, and they both pulled Sherlock's body from the bed and onto the cot. Arranging him comfortably, they then took their places around it: John and Mycroft at the foot of the cot, Greg and Tairok at the head and Molly in the middle behind John. All five of them knelt, grabbed the edge of the cot and lifted.

They moved slowly through the ship, emerging into the soft light as they moved down the ramp. John allowed himself a small moment of delight as he took his first step off of the ramp and onto an alien planet.

 _I feel like I'm a pallbearer in my own funeral procession,_ Sherlock spoke up.

John fought to keep the amused smile off of his face. Now would not be a good time to laugh. Instead, John glanced down at his feet, but then spotted something out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock's cot was tilted; his side—with him, Molly and Tairok—was higher, and the other side—with Mycroft and Greg—was lower. John was about to stop everyone to adjust when a voice spoke up, halting them.

"Here, let me."

A blonde woman about John's height hurried up to the middle of the cot across from Molly and took hold of it, leveling the cot. Her green eyes moved up to John's own, and John found himself staring at her. He couldn't explain it, but there was something alluring about her. The way she just jumped in to help, knowing exactly what was needed. And her eyes…they drew him in, like she was looking right into his soul…

"John."

John blinked and looked over at Greg. "Hmm?"

Greg just raised his brows and gave John a smirk.

John averted his gaze, blinking a few times as his eyes darted back and forth. "Um…" He cleared his throat and turned back around, starting to walk again. What he missed was the knowing, self-conscious smile on the blonde woman's face.

Greg and Molly, meanwhile, exchanged amused smiles as the six of them continued on towards the mountain's slope.

 _Really, John?_ Sherlock said. _You're going to flirt over my comatose body?_

 _I was not flirting,_ John shot back at him.

 _Oh, don't even bother lying,_ Sherlock told him.

 _Yeah, well, enjoy being able to see through me while it lasts._

 _I could always see through you, John._

John smiled a little as they approached the long steep path, Vulcans standing on each side and watching in curiosity as music started to drift towards them. Torches were planted every dozen feet or so as the six people carried the cot bearing Sherlock's body up the slope. John's legs had started to ache as they neared the crest of the hill.

As they reached the top, John caught sight of the temple on the other side. People stood waiting at the foot of the stairs of the temple, and John instantly recognized them: Sherlock's parents. He then noticed that Ainok was holding a sleeping baby, Sherlock's new brother Solkar. Further up the steps were several ornately dressed Vulcans. Clearly, they were members of the Council and other important figures. A lot of them were women wearing white robes and gold jewelry.

As they reached the foot of the steps, the music faded so gently that John was not even sure when it had stopped. Ainok gently handed Solkar over to Thomas and stepped down next to the cot, placing her hand on the side of Sherlock's face. She stared down at him for a long moment.

 _Ugh, Vulcan rituals,_ Sherlock groaned. _Kill me now._

 _Too late,_ John told him.

Sherlock let out a few laughs, and John stifled his smile; if it was inappropriate to smile earlier, it would be downright taboo to do so now.

Ainok stepped back from her son and turned towards the white-robed women, giving them a slow nod. The six women moved down to them with such grace and took the cot from them. The six of them moved aside as the Vulcan women—

 _Priestesses,_ Sherlock told him.

—took the cot and moved towards the temple, passing in between the massive stone pillars. A gong was being struck repeatedly from ahead of them. When they emerged from the pillars, they were standing on a platform with stairs that moved down to a circular clearing with an altar across from them. And on that altar—where two stone tables were sitting—stood an older Vulcan woman in white robes with an ornamental headdress.

 _T'Lar, the leader of the Vulcan priesthood,_ Sherlock explained. _She'll be the one performing the ritual._

As the priestesses brought Sherlock to T'Lar and Ainok moved towards the foot of the altar, Thomas turned towards them all in the middle of the clearing.

"You'll have to wait here," Thomas told them. "If you want to watch, that is."

John nodded as he and his friends stopped there.

"I thank you for doing this, Dr. Watson," Thomas told him. "Ainok won't say so, but it means a lot to us."

"My pleasure," John told him.

Thomas shifted Solkar in his arms and went to join his wife. John turned his attention back to the altar and saw that the cot had been placed on one of the stone tables. T'Lar placed her hand upon Sherlock's forehead and chanted a few words in what must have been the Vulcan's native tongue. She then lowered her hand to her side.

"Ainok," T'Lar said, her voice sharp and clear, "child of D'Nial, child of Niar. The body of your child breathes still. What is your wish?"

"I ask for _fal tor pan_ ," Ainok said. "The refusion."

"What you see has not been done since ages past," T'Lar replied. "It has succeeded only in legend. Your request is not logical."

"Forgive me, T'Lar," Ainok said. "My logic falters where my son is concerned."

T'Lar looked past her to the humans standing in attendance. "Who is the keeper of the katra?"

John straightened automatically into his old army posture. "I am the keeper. Dr. John H. Watson."

"John, since thou art human, and without knowledge of our philosophy, we cannot expect thee to understand fully what Ainok has requested," T'Lar told him. "The circumstances are extraordinary. Sherlock's body lives, and his soul is awake within thine own. With thine approval, we will use all our powers to return to his body that which thou dost possess: his essence. But, John…" She paused for a long moment, trying to convey the importance of the moment. "You must now be warned. The danger to you is as grave as the danger to Sherlock."

 _Could be dangerous,_ Sherlock piped up.

Reminded of their first case and how these words had triggered John's interest in what became their lifestyle, John fought down the smile yet again. _Dammit, you're bound and determined to get me in trouble!_

"You must make the choice," T'Lar finished, her face completely void of emotion.

"I choose the danger," John told her and then muttered, "just like always."

"Bring him forward!" T'Lar said.

 _Not so fast,_ Sherlock said before taking control. He took a breath before turning his back on the altar and facing his friends.

John could see Tairok's slanted brows rise in surprise. In fact, the few Vulcans standing back near the stone pillars also looked shocked that Sherlock had apparently broken from Vulcan tradition.

 _Sherlock, what are you doing?_ John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer. He just stepped up in front of Mycroft. "I owe you a debt. Everything you've done these last years was a great service to me and my people. Thank you."

 _Goodbye speeches, really?_ John asked as Mycroft gave a stiff nod.

Sherlock, again, did not reply and simply stepped over in front of Greg. "Lestrade. I cannot thank you enough for allowing me to work with you. It has made my time on Earth immensely endurable. You know me."

Greg laughed a little.

Sherlock held John's hand out, allowing Greg to shake it. "You've been a true friend, Greg."

Greg chuckled softly at the fact that Sherlock had remembered his name.

Sherlock released Greg's hand and stepped over in front of Molly. He stared at her for a long time, debating what he should say. If he never saw her again…

"Sherlock…" Molly whispered.

Sherlock snapped himself out of it. "Molly…you have been there for me every time I needed you. Moriarty underestimated your importance. You mean more to me than you realize." He paused for a moment before leaning forward and kissing her cheek.

John could see a blush rising on Molly's face as Sherlock smiled at her and then turned away, closing his eyes.

 _John,_ began Sherlock.

 _Don't, Sherlock,_ John told him. _You're going to be all right._

 _I need to,_ Sherlock replied. _After last time…_

John understood; Sherlock wanted to make amends for their last conversation on the rooftop, not being able to say a proper goodbye.

 _John, you have been more than a friend to me,_ Sherlock began. _You have been a confidant, a comrade…a brother. And I am truly sorry for the anguish and trouble I have put you through these past months._

 _What trouble?_ John told him. _I would do it all over again._

John felt the warmth course through him. He imagined no one had ever spoken so kindly or affectionately to Sherlock in his life.

 _John, you are the bravest…and kindest…and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing._

John was speechless. He had never heard such sincere and honest sentiment from his friend, not when it didn't involve Molly. He had made his friendship with Sherlock clear, but he had never known Sherlock held him in the same regard.

Inside John's closed eyelids, the image of Sherlock appeared, smiling grimly as he held his hand out. _To the very best of times, John._

John smiled at him and extended his own hand, shaking it. _And those yet to come._

Sherlock shook his head. _How poetic._

John rolled his eyes. _I'm a writer. What do you expect?_

The two of them laughed together for a moment.

 _You know, that Vulcan high priestess is waiting,_ John pointed out.

 _Oh, who cares?_ Sherlock grumbled.

 _And you wonder why you never fit in,_ John told him.

Sherlock smiled again. _Shall we?_

John opened his eyes and turned back towards the altar, where T'Lar, the priestesses and Sherlock's parents stood, all with shocked—almost impatient—looks on their faces. He looked up at Sherlock's body on one of the stone altars and then over at the empty one, waiting for him.

"Here we go," John muttered under his breath.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Two

 **I hope I did the Star Trek universe justice. I tried to stay true to what I've seen in the movies and shows. And I hope the website I used for the Vulcan translations was accurate.**

* * *

John stepped forward, past his friends and Sherlock's parents, and came to a stop at the foot of the steps. Two of the priestesses stepped down and escorted him up to the altar. He climbed onto the table and lay down, unconsciously clenching his fists as the table was wheeled over to T'Lar.

John turned his head to see Sherlock's table now placed on the other side of T'Lar. He placed his head back on the table, closing his eyes.

 _See you on the other side, Sherlock._

The next moment, the gong started up again, sounding every few seconds. After the second gong, a hand placed itself on his forehead. The entire world faded out and unconsciousness settled in around him.

* * *

Molly paced back and forth near her friends, wringing her hands in anticipation. The ceremony had been going on for at least four hours now, and it didn't look like it would end any time soon. Molly's gaze flew up to the altar, where Sherlock and John lay on the tables, eyes closed as T'Lar did the same, her hands on their foreheads.

Molly wondered what was going on in their heads. Were the two of them even conscious? Aware of anything around them? In a dream state? Was Sherlock still inside John's head? In his own? Hovering somewhere in the middle?

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked over to see Greg giving her a reassuring smile. It wasn't until then that she realized she was holding her breath, and she released it in a whoosh. Molly tried to give him a warm smile, but Greg apparently saw right through it, because he wrapped his arms around her, and they turned their gazes back to the altar.

The Vulcans in attendance were all still standing with their eyes closed, meditating during this revered ritual. Not a single one of them had faltered this whole time. Even baby Solkar was lying wide awake and calm in Ainok's arms, as though he too could sense the energy in the place. Molly had to admit that even she could feel something hovering in the place: an energy, a power.

Molly allowed the warmth of Greg's arms to reassure her as she closed her eyes to wait it out.

* * *

John didn't know how long he had been unconscious. One second, T'Lar was placing her hand on his face, and the next, he was blinking up at three of the priestesses as they gathered around him. They helped him to sit up, and John did so slowly, feeling both as though he were floating and his body was filled with lead. It was a very disorienting feeling.

As John let the priestesses move his legs over the side of the table, he suddenly became aware of one thing: he was alone. Not alone as in the only one in the room, but alone in that his mind was suddenly—surprisingly—all alone. It didn't feel right. He had spent the last three months almost with a constant companion, so much so that the sarcasm, agitation and intelligence had begun to feel like part of him. And now that it was all gone, he felt oddly incomplete. And he really hoped it would pass; he had never felt so slow in his life.

As he shook off the imbalance, the world came into focus again. The gong had stopped ringing, which made sense since the ritual was obviously over. John glanced up at the altar in front of him and saw T'Lar settling into an ornate chair, almost like a throne. Several male Vulcans—priests—were positioning themselves next to poles sticking out of the base of the throne, obviously meant for carrying the chair between them. The priestesses were motioning for him to stand up.

John pushed off of the table and onto his feet, taking a moment for his equilibrium to catch up. As he did, the four priests knelt, grabbed hold of the poles and hoisted T'Lar in her chair onto their shoulders. John glanced over at the table across from him where Sherlock lay. He didn't look any different from when John had seen him last before the ritual. He was still lying on the table, unconscious.

The priests headed down the steps of the altar, bearing T'Lar between them. John turned to follow and saw Ainok and Thomas at the foot of the altar, bowing their heads reverently towards T'Lar as she passed. His gaze then found Greg, Molly and Mycroft waiting in the middle of the clearing, smiling happily at him.

John glanced at Sherlock once again before stepping down from the altar and approaching his friends.

"John?" asked Greg.

John gave them a small smile. "I'm all right."

Molly smiled back at him. John just stared at her. For the first time in weeks, he could look at her without any attraction towards her at all. It was a nice reprieve; it had started getting confusing separating Sherlock's feelings from his own.

John turned back to the altar, and they watched as Ainok and Thomas approached their son, standing next to him. Thomas looked back up at them, and John followed his gaze to see that T'Lar and her entourage were heading between the stone pillars and out of the temple. John looked back at the altar, where Thomas looked at him and gestured for them to approach.

John stepped forward, the others right behind him, and climbed the stairs to stand around the table. Sherlock still looked so still, so empty. Had it worked? Was that why T'Lar left without a word, because the job was done? Or was her abrupt, silent departure in response to her failure?

Thomas interpreted his worried expression. "All we can do is wait. However long that may be."

John nodded and looked back down at his friend. _Come on, Sherlock. Fight for that brilliant mind of yours._

John looked up at Greg and Molly, who stood on the other side of the table. Greg shared the apprehensive look with him, but Molly's eyes would not leave Sherlock's face. She was staring in expectation, the tears starting to fill her eyes.

 _Don't you dare die on us again, Sherlock,_ John thought. _Not in front of her._

John looked down at Sherlock again, content to wait as long as possible.

Sherlock suddenly inhaled sharply as his eyes flew open, causing them all to jump—except Ainok, of course.

John leaned forward a little. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock blinked a few times, his eyes staring up at the night sky.

"Hey, can you hear me?" John asked, worried. He wasn't seeing any difference between this Sherlock and the blank Sherlock from before.

Sherlock blinked a couple more times before his gaze slid over to John.

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice rising a little in concern.

Sherlock's eyes twitched before a small smile broke over his face and he began chuckling a little. "Sorry. I forgot you couldn't hear my thoughts anymore."

John smiled and began laughing, relieved that his friend was back.

Sherlock pulled himself up into a sitting position a little more shakily than usual. His brows rose as he turned to hang his legs off the side of the table. "Well, that's a strange feeling."

"What?" asked John as he headed around to stand next to him.

"It's like I have to adapt to my body all over again," Sherlock explained. "I'm used to your compact build and shorter limbs."

"And now, you have to go back to being a scarecrow," John said.

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. "Normally, a comment like that wouldn't affect me like this. I think your humanity rubbed off on me." He finally turned his head to look at him properly. "Hmm. Not used to that, either."

"What?" asked John.

"Seeing your face outside of a reflection," said Sherlock.

John laughed again, the happiness nearly overwhelming him. If he'd been told the day after Sherlock jumped from Bart's rooftop that one day he would be standing on a distant planet with his resurrected friend laughing with him once again, he never would have believed it, even with the knowledge that Sherlock was from said planet. John had been waiting for this moment for nearly two months, and now, here he was: alive and real.

John stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, who instantly froze before slowly placing his hands on John's back. "Welcome back, mate."

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock softly.

John pulled away with a smile. "Don't mention it."

"No, John," said Sherlock firmly, drawing his attention. "Without you, I wouldn't be here. Thank you."

John shared his look and nodded before clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get you out of here." He grasped his arm and helped pull him to his feet.

Sherlock looked over at the others once he was on his feet. "Lestrade."

Greg smiled. "Good to have you back."

"Thank you for supporting John through this," Sherlock told him, shaking his hand.

Sherlock then looked over at Molly, and a warm smile appeared on his face. "Molly…"

Molly smiled as she stepped forward. "I'm glad you found your way back." She pushed herself onto her toes and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Sherlock stared at her a moment as she fell back onto her feet. "Thank you for being there for me."

Molly stepped back as Sherlock then turned towards his parents. He took a step forward and raised his hand, separating the fingers in the Vulcan salute.

"Dif-tor heh smusma," Sherlock greeted them. **(A/N: Vulcan for "Live long and prosper")**

His parents returned the salute.

"Sochya eh dif, t'nash-veh sa-fu," said Ainok. **(A/N: Vulcan for "Peace and long life, my son")** She lowered her hand back to the baby in her arms and held him out slightly towards Sherlock. "Your brother, Solkar."

Sherlock reached his hand out and placed his fingers on the baby's small face, closing his eyes as he mind-melded with his sibling. John watched as this Vulcan ritual happened, once again amazed at what his friend could do. After a moment, Sherlock opened his eyes, and the three of them strode off down the steps and out of the temple.

A male Vulcan approached them and spoke. "I will show you to your lodgings." He abruptly turned and headed for the temple's entrance, leaving them all to follow him.

* * *

John emerged from the room that had been assigned to him, heading down the corridor and down the main staircase towards the dining area. It was the day after the refusion ritual, and John was determined to explore as much as he could. After all, they only had a week on Vulcan before they would leave for Earth again.

John pulled his plate from the food generator and headed for a seat at one of the few tables and was surprised to see the blonde woman who had helped carry Sherlock's body yesterday. Smiling, John approached her.

"Hello," John greeted.

The woman looked up at him and smiled. "Oh, hi! It's good to see you again."

"Likewise," said John. He nodded to the other side of the table. "May I?"

"Please," she said as she gestured to the seat across from her.

John moved around the table and sat down across from her, noticing for the first time as she looked at him that her eyes had black irises that made them look like huge black circles on the front of them. He wondered if that was a side effect that could happen in the child of a Vulcan-human couple. Maybe that was to offset the blonde hair she had inherited instead of the traditional Vulcan black. And just like Sherlock, her eyebrows and ears were human, not Vulcan.

"I'm Mary, by the way," she told him. "Mary Morstan."

"John Watson," he replied, picking up his fork and beginning to eat his breakfast. "I, erm, I hope you don't mind me asking, but I thought Sherlock was the only half-human on Vulcan."

"Oh, I'm not Vulcan," Mary explained. "I'm just visiting."

John frowned. "You're from Earth?"

"Not human, either," Mary told him. "I'm from Betazed."

John's frown deepened. "Betazed?"

"My home planet," Mary explained. "It's actually not far from Earth."

John's face brightened. "Wait a minute, I think I did hear Sherlock mention that once. Aren't your people similar to Vulcans?"

"Sort of," said Mary, setting her fork down on her plate. "Just like Vulcans, we can read minds, but not through a mind meld. Our race had empathic and telepathic capabilities."

"Empathic?" asked John. "You mean you can feel people's emotions?"

"Yes," said Mary. "And by the way, I found your infatuation when we met yesterday quite flattering."

John's jaw dropped as he tried to splutter out a response. "I-I didn't—I mean, I—It, uh—"

Mary laughed, her smile widening at his predicament. "Sorry. As a telepathic species, we tend to speak our minds. After all, they're always on display."

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, that's, erm…that's fine. Normally, I like to ask a girl out before she tells me I like her, but…"

Mary laughed again.

"This works, too," finished John, a smile on his face. He took another bite of his breakfast. "So, how long are you on Vulcan for?"

"Not long," Mary replied. "I'm in the middle of a tour, of sorts. Vulcan was my last stop before Earth."

"And how long will you be there before you go back home?"

"Actually, I plan to stay."

John's brows rose. "You're going to live on Earth?"

"Yeah, it just sounds like a fascinating culture. Much more interesting than mine."

John smiled. "In that case, there is a nice French restaurant in Marylebone Road that I'd like to take you to when we get there."

Mary smiled. "It's a date."

John took another bite of his food. "So, you're reading my thoughts right now?"

"Naturally," said Mary.

"And?" asked John.

"And you have a very brave and kind heart," Mary told him.

John smiled as the two of them got lost in conversation.

* * *

Sherlock stepped into the Council chambers, moving towards the dais. He had spent the whole day recuperating after yesterday's fal-tor-pan until the Council had summoned him for "official business." They would be wanting a debriefing of his time on Earth so far and would then outline anything else they wanted him to investigate when he went back. Sherlock gave them a salute as he came to a stop in front of them.

The head of the Council looked down at him from his seat. "Sherlock, son of Ainok. What are your findings of the humans?"

"They are a primitive race, squabbling amongst each other like cave men," Sherlock told them. "But they show great promise. I estimate them to be capable of warp within the century. They will become a great people one day."

The head of the Council nodded in understanding. "Very well. The Council thanks you. You performed admirably on this mission and have brought great honor to your family. You are dismissed."

Sherlock blinked a few times, confused. _Performed? Past tense? But that would imply…_

"Yes, Sherlock?" asked a Council member. "You have a question?"

"Dismissed?" asked Sherlock. "Am I not to be advised on my duties once I return to Earth?"

"That won't be necessary," said the Council member.

Sherlock stared in shock and horror. He had a bad feeling about what was coming next.

"We have collected all the information we need to know about Earth for the time being. Your mission is complete."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. Complete? As in, not returning to Earth?

"Welcome home."

As the Council stood to leave, Sherlock couldn't make himself move. He wasn't allowed to return? A measly two and a half years on Earth? That was all he got? He hadn't even had the opportunity to say goodbye—

Sherlock's jaw dropped. _Goodbye…John…_

His heart wrenched painfully in his chest.

 _Molly…_

* * *

 **Bear with me! It gets better, I swear!**


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 23

 **This one's kind of long, but think of it as making up for any short ones earlier. Only two left after this! I hope to finish this story before spring semester starts up. Will have practically no time whatsoever what with classes, Honors Program and a new Tax Preparer job.**

 **But you don't care about that.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Molly stepped into the lounge of the visitor's compound, startled at the sound of laughter. Everyone she had gone on Vulcan, there was nothing but silence, and when there **was** conversation, it was in calm, controlled tones. Her quest to explore this place her friend had come from had lost its shine about halfway through the day. She'd thought Sherlock had been exaggerating when he'd spoken of how dull his home planet was. But it was all completely true. Vulcan really was boring. And she couldn't wait to leave with all of her friends.

Molly followed the laughter and found John with the blonde woman who had helped carry the cot yesterday. They were sitting on what had to be an uncomfortable sofa—all of the furniture on Vulcan was minimally cushioned; they apparently didn't hold comfort in very high regard—in a small gathering of chairs. They appeared to really be enjoying one another's company.

"And then he has me go answer the door, only to have Angelo standing there with my cane in his hand," John told the woman.

The woman laughed, her hand on her stomach. "What a drama queen!"

"Oh, that's just the tip of the iceberg," John told her, laughing. He looked up at her. "Molly, hi. Come join us."

Molly sat down in a chair adjacent to the sofa.

"Molly, this is Mary Morstan," John introduced. "Mary, this is Molly Hooper."

"Pleasure to meet you," said Mary.

"Mary is from Betazed," John explained. "And Molly is a forensic pathologist at Bart's Hospital."

"You work with Sherlock, too?" asked Mary.

Molly nodded a couple times. "A lot. I'm the only one at the hospital he'll work with."

"Ooh, do I sense something there?" said Mary, a coy smile on her face.

Despite the fact that there wasn't, Molly blushed. She opened her mouth to explain.

"Oh, he doesn't feel the same way," Mary went on in a lower voice. "I'm sorry."

Molly frowned in confusion, her jaw hanging open.

John leaned forward, a small smile on his face. "Betazoids are empaths."

Molly's eyes brightened as she nodded. "Oh."

"Yes, we read emotions and thoughts," Mary explained. "Sorry if I embarrassed you."

Molly shook her head. "No, it's fine. John already knows." She took a breath. "It's not as though Sherlock _doesn't_ like me. It's that he's Vulcan. He can't return my feelings, and I understand that. I know that he considers me a close friend, and I'm happy with that."

John gave her a look. "Just a friend, hmm?"

Molly shook her head. "I know what you're implying, John, but I don't think you're right about this one. I mean, he's not only Vulcan; he's Sherlock. I know you said that he chooses not to feel, that he keeps it all back, but I just don't see it."

John glanced over at Mary, who shared a look with him.

"Well, you never know," Mary muttered with a secret smile as she glanced up at the doorway to see Greg heading for them.

"Greg!" said John, gesturing to another empty seat nearby.

"Hello," said Greg. "Fun day all around?"

"Definitely," said John. "Greg, Mary Morstan. Mary, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

"Pleasure," said Greg. "Did you know there are no police officials here?"

"Really?" asked Molly.

"Really," said Greg. "Apparently, they're too civilized to worry about something like that."

"Hey," said Mary suddenly, nodding at the doorway.

They all looked up and turned to see Sherlock, still wearing his white Vulcan robes, walking towards them, his eyes on the ground.

"Sherlock, hey," said John as Sherlock slowly made his way over.

Sherlock's face was completely blank as he stared at the floor. Molly glanced at John, sharing a concerned expression before looking back at Sherlock. Sherlock sat down in an empty chair, still staring at the floor.

"How are you doing?" John asked him.

There was silence for a moment before Sherlock replied in a low voice. "Fine."

Molly leaned forward in her chair next to him, placing her hand over his. "What's the matter?"

Sherlock was silent again for a moment before speaking. "I've just been to see the Council."

"And?" asked Greg.

"I was to tell them about the mission so far and receive instructions for when I return," Sherlock replied, still in that quiet, empty voice.

"And?" asked John, not liking the direction of the conversation paired with the quality of Sherlock's tone.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "It is their view on the matter that we have collected all the information possible on humanity." He finally raised his gaze and looked at all of them. "They've forbidden me from returning to Earth."

Molly sucked in a sharp breath.

"What?" said Greg at the same time.

Sherlock's eyes lingered on Molly for a long moment before moving on to everyone else. "I can't come back with you."

"Well, can't you just sneak onboard the ship when we leave?" asked John.

"It's not that simple, John," said Sherlock.

"What, are they going to be keeping guard in case you try to make an escape?" John said sarcastically.

"Yes," said Sherlock with a completely straight face.

John came up short, staring at him.

"I've always been a bit of a troublemaker," Sherlock explained. "Despite the 'honor' my mission has brought to my family name, the elders have never trusted me and they never will. They are an older generation of Vulcan, one who is still prejudiced towards humans. To them, I am nothing but an abomination."

Molly gave his hand a squeeze in comfort.

"They are not likely to grant me any favors," Sherlock finished.

John's eyes fell to the floor, along with everyone else's. That was it? They had finally gotten him back, and it was all for nothing? Who do these Vulcans think they are to keep Sherlock here against his will? They just expect them to be able to say their goodbyes this week and then never see each other again? Those self-righteous, racist, unfeeling—

"I can probably hack into the communications network to keep in contact regularly," Sherlock told them.

"Oh, thank God for that," John bit off, shooting to his feet. "I thought all was lost." He strode past them and towards the door.

Mary got to her feet. "John!" She headed out the door after him.

Sherlock frowned after John before looking back at the others in confusion. "Isn't that good news, that we'll get to keep in contact?"

Molly tilted her head, her brows scrunching together in sympathy. "Oh, Sherlock…" She turned more towards him to explain. "We had to mourn for you when you died. We found out there was a way to get you back and traveled sixteen lightyears to do so. And now, after we've gotten you back, we have to let you go all over again. It's very hard for a human to bounce back and forth between hope and despair. Sooner or later, we start to think that hope just isn't going to bounce back."

Sherlock looked down at the floor, grateful for the explanation. Ever since he had found out he wouldn't be going back to Earth, he had closed off his humanity. If he had to stay behind while the only friends he had ever had—while Molly—left, then he was going to make it as easy as possible.

* * *

John paced back and forth in his quarters, regretting the way he had handled the news. He was still upset, but the anger had diminished down to a simmer.

"I'm sorry, John," said Mary from her seat on the sofa nearby.

John glanced at her as he continued pacing. "I know it's not his fault. I know that if he could, he would come with us, even if it's only for another seven years. It's just…"

"Upsetting," finished Mary. "To know you'll never see him again."

John nodded, coming to a stop with his arms crossed in front of him.

"Do you want to stay?"

John looked over at Mary, his brows drawing together.

"Instead of returning to Earth?" asked Mary.

John's jaw dropped a little at the suggestion. He hadn't even thought of that. Could he? Stay on Vulcan? It would definitely solve the problem of saying goodbye to Sherlock.

But then again…Mike, Greg, Harry, his parents…

John turned further towards Mary with a small shake of his head. "As great as it would be to not leave Sherlock behind…" he shrugged a little, "London is my home."

Mary gave a small nod.

"I have a job, a life, friends, family," John explained. "I can't just leave that all behind." He stared down at the floor. "I can't imagine living anywhere else."

There was a long moment of silence, only broken when John sucked in a long breath and looked at her again.

"Besides, I wouldn't fit in here," John told her. "I mean, if they barely tolerate Sherlock…" He shook his head, riling himself up again. "It's just—" He clenched his jaw in frustration. "I haven't even known him for two years. It's just…"

"Not fair," Mary finished for him.

John smirked, looking up at her. "Being in danger of sounding like a six-year-old, yes."

A knock came at the door, and John turned towards it. "Come in."

The door slid open, revealing Sherlock standing there.

Sherlock glanced from John to Mary and back again. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" asked John, a lot calmer after his talk with Mary.

"For the way I delivered the news," Sherlock explained as he stepped inside. "I could have been more sensitive about it."

John nodded, accepting the apology. "I'm sorry, too. I only reacted that way because I was upset with the situation, not with you. I mean, this has got to be hard on you, too."

Sherlock gave an indifferent shrug. "Not really."

John frowned. "No?"

"I turned off my humanity," Sherlock replied. "Completely. Much easier this way."

"Easier?" asked John, the anger starting to rise again.

Sherlock gave him a frown, not understanding why John wasn't getting it. "Of course. Much too hard to say goodbye. This way, I can do so without those pesky feelings tearing me apart."

John's jaw clenched. "You shut off your humanity so that it wouldn't have to go through this?"

"Yes."

The calm way that Sherlock answered just infuriated John all the more. Why was Sherlock allowed to not feel all of this while they had to? He just decides that it's too much and takes the easy way out? If this was so hard for him, why did he volunteer in the first place? He was going to leave some day anyway, so why was it suddenly too hard?

"Sherlock, how can this come as a shock to you?" John demanded in a raised voice, his fists clenching at his sides. "I mean, you knew that this was going to happen eventually, that you were going to be leaving and saying goodbye. What different does it make if it's today or seven years from now?"

Sherlock had been still and silent throughout the whole thing, and he now looked down at the floor. "I suppose that until the moment was right in front of me, a part of me was in denial about it ever coming at all."

John's expression softened as his hands relaxed. "You wanted to believe the lie…that you would get to stay."

Sherlock gave a solitary nod, not looking up.

John could've kicked himself. How quick he was to forget the depths that Sherlock kept hidden. Of course this was hard for him, too. It clearly was if he had to cast off his humanity to face it. But in his frustration and grief with the whole situation, John had completely forgotten.

"I do promise this, though, John."

John looked up at him.

"I will do everything in my power to find my way back there," Sherlock told him, his eyes not wavering from John's own.

John gave a smile and a nod, accepting the olive branch.

"After all, the majority of the Council is getting on in years." Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps in a few years, there'll be a new one, one a little more lenient in these matters."

John's smile widened. "Well, I'll keep an eye out for you, then."

Sherlock gave a friendly smile, the two of them back on the same footing.

John broke the moment by taking in a great lungful of air, glancing at Mary and Sherlock. "Shall we?" He looked back at Sherlock. "Gotta make every moment count, after all."

Mary got to her feet, and Sherlock stepped aside to let her through the door. He then turned to follow her.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock looked back at him.

"I do have one question," said John.

Sherlock turned fully towards him, an expectant look on his face.

"Molly," stated John.

Sherlock's mouth and eyes twitched, the expectant expression falling.

"Are you really not going to tell her?" John asked him, shaking his head.

Sherlock's eyes fell to the floor as he contemplated his answer. "Even though my recent experience with you changed my opinion on the matter…"

John smiled a little at that, his spirits lifting. _He changed his mind!_

Sherlock's gaze moved back up to John, whose smile faded at the sad, despondent look in his eyes. "She's leaving in less than a week…"

John's heart plummeted at Sherlock's tone.

Sherlock's eyes fell again. "And I will most likely never see her again." He stared at John's feet for a moment before looking up firmly into John's eyes. "I will not do that to her." He stared at John a moment before turning and heading through the door.

John stared at the spot his friend had disappeared from, feeling unbelievably sad for his friends. _He's probably right. It's probably best she doesn't know how close they came before they lost it all._

* * *

With only five days to go until John, Mycroft, Greg and Molly left to return to Earth, they all deemed to spend as much time as possible with Sherlock. He had shown them all the sights and wonders of Vulcan, including his childhood home. Thomas and Ainok had even invited all of them over for what, no doubt, would have been an embarrassing dinner, had Sherlock felt inclined to indulge his human half. There were pictures of him as a child, humiliating childhood stories, and even a spectacular episode in which Solkar spit up all over Sherlock's front. John and Greg immensely enjoyed the stories, but Molly stared at the photos with an adoring smile on her face and an "aww" on her lips.

Which was probably what Sherlock was having such a problem with.

Every smile she gave him, every laugh she let out, every time she casually touched his hand sent a knife straight through him. He had pulled that Vulcan wall up around him again, but somehow, Molly still found a way to worm her way through. He was trying harder than ever to fight his emotions, and it was becoming rather taxing. But he had to in order to say goodbye to her. To all of them. He didn't want to say goodbye to any of them, least of all John, but Molly…none of the upcoming farewells hurt as much as hers.

And so, with three days left to go, Sherlock lay wide awake, unable to quiet his mind in order to sleep. No matter how many times he closed his eyes, clearing his mind to lure himself to sleep, Molly and John and the whole ordeal—mainly Molly—kept popping back up into his head. His ability to detach himself from his humanity had never failed him before, so why now? What was different?

 _You need to vent, mate._

Sherlock paused at John's voice in his head. Of course. John was always saying he needed to go vent whenever he got worked up. That was exactly what was different. The reason why he was always able to control his emotions was because he always allowed them to vent before shutting them off. When he had learned he wouldn't be returning to Earth, he had immediately shut down; he hadn't let his emotions have their say. All he needed to do was let his humanity out for some fresh air.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his mental barriers down and his human half out. The flood that hit him was immense. It was so sad and deep and aching and depressing and gut-wrenching and all-consuming and just _painful_ ; it was pure, unadulterated heartache, heartache that had been pent-up without a single outlet for almost three days. And it was striking back with a vengeance.

Sherlock curled onto his side, his arms wrapping themselves around him. His throat ached as it worked its way around the lump stuck in it. Tears fell down his face as he pulled his legs a little closer to his chest.

* * *

John laughed as he picked up his drink, taking a few mouthfuls of it. The others were all gathered around the table, enjoying lunch and some friendly conversation.

"Ooh, tell her about Professor Presbury!" said Molly suddenly.

"Oh, yeah!" said John, setting his glass down and looking at Mary. "So, Professor Presbury's assistant came to us about his employer's behavior: disappearing for weeks at a time, the dog attacking the professor out of nowhere, mysterious post, and the professor had even been spotted crawling along the hall and the outside of the house."

"Oh, my God," said Mary. "What was wrong with him?"

"Extract of colobinae," stated Sherlock.

Mary looked over at him in confusion.

"A subfamily of monkeys found primarily in India," Sherlock explained before pausing. "Monkeys are—"

"I know what monkeys are," Mary told him. "I studied Earth in depth."

Sherlock nodded once. "The serum made from the extract succeeded in rejuvenating his body for his young fiancé while giving him the natural instincts and behavior of the animal."

"He dosed himself with monkey DNA," mused Mary, starting to laugh.

"They're not doing the story justice," laughed Molly.

Sherlock looked towards her.

"You need to read John's blog," Molly told her. "They met with Presbury, and the man practically attacked them." She looked at Sherlock. "He jumped on top of Sherlock and tried to claw his eyes out."

Mary burst into laughter as Molly looked back at her. Sherlock turned his head away with a grimace, his jaw clenching. John narrowed his eyes at his friend. Sherlock's eyes then lighted upon the empty glasses in front of the women.

"Refills, ladies?" asked Sherlock, standing from the table.

"Please," said Mary as Molly gave a nod.

Sherlock scooped up their glasses and strode off to the refreshment table on the other side of the room. John stood with his own glass and followed him. Sherlock came to a stop and handed the glasses over, waiting for a refill.

John came up next to him and placed his glass on the table. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock glanced at him momentarily. "What do you mean?"

"Molly started telling the story of the case, and when she looked away, you looked frustrated," said John.

Sherlock's gaze shot up to him, his lips parting a little in surprise.

"Not frustrated at her, but frustrated with something," John went on.

Sherlock blinked nervously a few times as he looked back at the table of their friends. He looked back at John. "I—" he glanced towards the table and back again, "I can't get rid of it."

"Rid of what?" asked John.

"These feelings!" Sherlock hissed at him. "There's this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that I can't get past. I've tried everything! Nothing works! I even let my human half out for a considerable time last night to deal with it all, but it only seems to have made it worse!" He ran a hand over his face. "Just the thought of…"

"Never seeing Molly again," finished John.

Sherlock looked up at him, calming down a little. "I was going to say all of you…but yes."

John watched as his friend glanced over at where Greg, Mary and Molly sat, talking animatedly. "Tell them."

Sherlock looked at him, brows drawing together. "Who?"

"The Council."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, closing his eyes in exasperation.

John held a hand up. "No, no, hear me out. If you just tell them how you feel about Molly, maybe that will change their minds."

Sherlock stepped forward towards him. "This isn't something as simple as going to the government and asking to be extradited to another country because you want to be with someone. Think of who you're talking about, John. This is like approaching a race of robots and explaining how digestion works. It's not that they don't know what it is; it's that they don't understand it. To them, it's pointless, it's…illogical." He turned away, unable to look at John anymore.

John watched as Sherlock's gaze fell on Molly. "It's going to be okay."

"Having to say goodbye to all of you…" Sherlock looked back at him for a moment before his eyes fell to the floor. "To be honest, I don't know what I'll do when you leave."

John's eyes widened at the despair—the depression—in his friend's eyes. Surely, he couldn't be thinking of doing anything drastic. Like, say, jumping off a building. _Oh, God…_ "But…but you're going to hack the communications network, keep in touch. And—and this is your home. You grew up here. It can't be that bad."

Sherlock's lost eyes met his, looking unbelievably vulnerable. "It might as well be a prison sentence." He then grabbed the two full glasses and walked away.

John stared at where Sherlock had been standing for a while before looking over to see him sitting back down at the table, a fake, strained smile on his face.

* * *

Sherlock watched as Molly walked along the shore of Lake Yuron, soaking her bare feet in the water. She just looked so beautiful in the morning light, her face tilted up to bask in the warmth. She was so beautiful and amazing and indomitable and intelligent and wonderful and kind. He couldn't imagine saying goodbye to her.

 _So, why should I?_ wondered Sherlock. _If I want to be with her for a few more years, why should something as small as the Council stop me?_

Sherlock began to plan. Over the next two days, he came up with an elaborate scheme to sneak his way onto the ship. A little makeup for the eyebrows and a set of Vulcan robes from Tairok's crew—plus a few more precautions—and no one would suspect a thing. Of course, he would have to leave extensive evidence to show that he was still in his quarters. And it would have to be convincing, in order to avoid the Council's attention.

And so, with plan fully in place, Sherlock headed off to the farewell party the night before the launch. It was a bittersweet affair—for the others, at least; no one knew about Sherlock's plan but himself—as they prepared to say goodbye. It was a couple hours into the evening when a voice suddenly interrupted their conversations.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned in his seat to see a young Vulcan man in regal robes. _Stately, formal robes. I don't like the look of this._

"Your presence is required at the request of the Council," said the man.

Sherlock's heart plummeted straight to his feet. The mission was over; there was no reason the Council would want to see him, except for…

Sherlock gave a tight nod. "I'll join them momentarily."

The Vulcan nodded and then turned and left. Sherlock turned his head towards the floor, starting to panic a little.

"What could they possibly want you for now?" John demanded, setting his glass of Vulcan wine down. "Haven't they done enough?"

Sherlock still stared at the floor, his jaw dropping a little as his eyes darted about.

"Sherlock…what did you do?" asked John suddenly.

Sherlock slowly looked up at everyone, their faces expectant as they correctly interpreted his behavior. "It's not so much what I have done as what I will do." He turned fully towards them. "I made plans, plans I thought were elaborate enough to evade the Council."

"What plans?" asked Greg.

"To sneak onto the ship tomorrow morning," Sherlock replied.

Everyone reacted with surprise, and John's eyes moved to Molly before resting back on Sherlock.

"Obviously, they were not stealthy enough," Sherlock finished in a quiet voice.

Everyone was silent for a moment as they absorbed that information.

"Well, it's the thought that counts," said Molly.

Sherlock gave her a slight smile.

"What will they do?" Mary asked, concern in her voice.

Sherlock shook his head, thinking through all the bad scenarios in his head of possible punishments he was about to face. "I don't know. But I don't imagine it'll be anything good."

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of the dais, waiting for the Council members to arrive. He was starting to break out in a sweat as he stood wringing his hands. He hadn't been this nervous since he was a young child. What sort of horrors was he about to face? Prison? Banishment? A forced kolinahr? To defy the Council's direct orders had to reap some of the worst punishments they could think of.

The doors suddenly opened, admitting the Council members into the chamber. They took their seats at the dais and looked down upon him. Sherlock inclined his head towards them in a slight bow.

"Sherlock, son of Ainok."

Sherlock lifted his head to look at them.

"You have been brought before us today under unprecedented circumstances," stated the lead member of the Council.

Sherlock's hands fidgeted under his robes.

"You were forbidden from returning to Earth with the humans."

Sherlock's jaw clenched as his gaze lowered sadly. _Oh, God. This is it._

"However, an individual has come forward with a possible compromise."

Sherlock frowned as he looked up at them. This did not sound like it was leading to a punishment.

"One that will benefit both you and our people," continued the Council member.

* * *

 **Oh, ho! A light at the end of the tunnel! I told you not to worry.**


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 24

 **Happy New Year!**

* * *

Molly took her trousers from the dresser drawer and slowly moved over to her bed, tucking them into her bag. She really didn't want to leave, but she knew that if she stayed, it would only be worse. Sherlock would never return her feelings, but at least back on Earth, she had Bart's and her cat and her friends to distract her from it. She could never stay here; it would be like a slow death inside.

Molly turned back to her packing, her mind turning towards Sherlock. Was he still with the Council? Had they delivered a verdict? A punishment? Was Sherlock mistaken and they actually had no idea that he had been planning something? But if that was so, then why had they needed to talk to him?

A knock at the door shook Molly out of her musings, and she tucked the shirt she had been folding into her bag. She stepped up to the door and pressed the button to open it. It slid open with its usual swooshing sound, and she looked up to see Sherlock standing in the corridor.

Sherlock gave her a fixed smile. "Hi."

Molly smiled back. "Hi."

"May I come in?" asked Sherlock.

"Sure." Molly stood aside as Sherlock walked into her quarters, the door sliding closed after a moment. Molly turned around, watching as Sherlock came to a stop in the middle of the room and turned towards her. "So, how did it go? Did they punish you?"

"Surprisingly, no," Sherlock answered, clasping his hands behind his back. "They gave me an update on my mission."

Molly frowned, cocking her head to the side a little. Why would they update his mission? They put an end to it. "An update?"

"They gave me a choice." Sherlock paused almost dramatically, very obviously building the suspense. "Either I stay here on Vulcan, or I return to Earth. Forever."

Molly's heart fell once more. A choice between seeing his family and his home or being exiled? What kind of a choice was that? It was just the Council giving him a choice they already knew the answer to, and a way to get Sherlock to fall in line.

Molly nodded stiffly, knowing which answer to expect. "What did you tell them?"

Sherlock hesitated, his mouth slowly opening as though nervous about what he was about to say. "I told them I belonged at home."

Molly's heart clenched painfully in her chest. She had been expecting it, but it still hurt to hear it. Her heart broke for him; he was completely trapped, unable to ever escape from under the hands of the Vulcan Council. This was it. Their last conversation. There would only be the goodbyes tomorrow morning—

"With you."

—and then he would be gone. It would all be gone; his multitude of visits to the lab, his strange requests for body parts, his brilliant mind, his confident nature, his cocky yet warm smile—

Molly's eyes widened as her gaze shot up to his. What had he said? He was coming with them? "What?"

Sherlock was now staring intently at Molly, his eyes blazing with something she had never seen there before. "Molly, when I told you that the Vulcan in me doesn't allow me to feel very much emotion…that may have been a bit of an exaggeration. While it's true that my Vulcan genetics tend to rule my emotional state, it's only because I let it."

Molly stared at him, stunned.

" _Sherlock, on the other hand…is half human, which means he can choose whether to let his human side—his emotions—in. And he chooses to be Vulcan."_

" _I believe Sherlock Holmes feels much more than he lets on."_

 _I don't believe it,_ she thought. _John was right._

Sherlock turned and began to pace to the other side of the room, bringing his hands around in front of him. "I tend to form deep emotional connections if I'm not careful, and I knew I would have to refrain from that if I were to return home after ten years, so I pushed my human half away." He came to a stop at the window that overlooked the valley, staring out of it. "Well, it was really more of a response to the ridicule and jests made by my schoolmates when I was a child."

Molly's heart ached at that. What emotional torture must he have gone through just because of his DNA to cause an emotionless machine to emerge.

"That was when I learned to cast off my humanity," continued Sherlock. "And I vowed to remain Vulcan ever since." He then slowly turned to face her. "The one thing I didn't count on was you."

Molly frowned a little, not sure what he was saying.

"Your smile…" he continued, taking slow steps towards her, "your eyes…your courage…your strength…your heart…"

Molly was sure she was blushing heavily at this point.

"I've tried fighting it for years, knowing that it would only end up hurting you when I had to leave." He came to a stop in front of her, gazing warmly down at her, "but you clung onto my heart for dear life."

Molly could do nothing but stare up at him, stunned. Was he really saying this?

"I don't know how well a person—a being—like me can do with a relationship, but I do know that I am tired of fighting it." Sherlock stepped up close to her. "I want it. I want you, and everything that comes with you."

Molly gaped up at him, completely speechless. Her eyes searched his face for something— _anything—_ that betrayed his usual manipulation, but all that was there was…something Molly still couldn't place. "But…but w-what about your family? Your home?"

Sherlock raised his hound and placed it along the side of her face, causing her to gasp. " **You** are my home. I love you."

The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. Molly could only stare at him as he caressed her cheek with his thumb.

 _This can't be happening. It can't._

Sherlock's eyes stared intently into hers for a moment before he slowly began lowering his head to hers, placing his lips on her own. The kiss was tender and hesitant, and before Molly knew it, Sherlock was pulling away.

Molly's lungs finally released, letting out the breath that had been frozen there. She looked up into his eyes, finally recognizing that look in his eyes: love.

"Is this for real?" Molly whispered, still stunned.

Sherlock's smile widened as he lifted his other hand, framing her face between them. "Oh, Molly, I assure you this is very real. I love you, and I never want to let you go."

A smile finally broke out on Molly's face. "I love you, too."

Sherlock's eyes brightened as his smile widened further. He placed his forehead against Molly's, moving his arms from either side of her head to her upper arms. "I will not be perfect. I will forget important dates during cases. I will leave experiments all over the flat. My Vulcan side will often emerge and say crass things without even realizing it. I am still me, and I will not be a normal boyfriend. I am unpleasant and rude and ignorant and obnoxious—"

Molly shook her head with a smile as she reached up and placed her hands behind his neck, pulling him down into a hungry kiss. Sherlock froze for a moment in shock at Molly's bold move before he slid his arms around her, pulling her close.

* * *

John set his two bags down at the foot of the ship's ramp.

"Slow start for you, too, eh?" asked Greg as he walked up with his own bag.

John turned towards him. "Yeah. Kind of wanted to delay it as long as possible." He glanced over at Tairok's crew as they prepared the ship. He then turned back to Greg. "Did you see Sherlock again after he was called to the Council?"

Greg shook his head. "Haven't heard from him."

"Do you think he's okay?" asked John. "The Council wouldn't have done anything to him, would they?"

"Oh, don't worry, boys," said Thomas as he approached them. "I saw Sherlock leaving the Council chambers. He's fine."

"Then where is he?" asked Greg.

Thomas gave a shrug. "Probably wants to delay the goodbye."

Remembering what Sherlock had said a few days ago about denying the inevitable, John instantly slumped his shoulders, feeling incredibly sorry for his friend. "But he will be here. I mean, I know it's hard to say goodbye, to have **us** say goodbye, but he will be here, right?"

"Oh, don't worry," Thomas told them, a strange smile on his face. "He wouldn't miss this. He'll be here."

John nodded, still worried about his friend.

Mycroft stepped down the ramp towards them. "We are ready to launch, if someone would like to fetch Dr. Hooper."

"I'll go," John responded, looking back at Greg and Thomas. "I'll find Sherlock on my way back." He turned and headed into the complex, winding through the corridors and stairways before coming to Molly's door. He pressed the button for the buzzer and waited for Molly to come to the door.

The door slid open, revealing Molly in a dressing gown.

"John," said Molly, her eyes sliding over to the corner of the room.

"Hey, Mycroft said the ship is ready to go, so…" said John.

Molly nodded. "Okay, thanks. I'll, um…be right there."

John nodded. "All right. Listen, erm…have you seen Sherlock?"

Molly's eyes slid into the room's corner again. "Erm…"

"No one's seen him since last night, and I'm just worried," John told her. "We all know he's a bit unpredictable, and I'm worried about what he might do today—"

Sherlock strode into the room behind Molly, heading straight for the bed. "Molly, I've just solved the problem of where to put your cat."

John froze, his jaw dropping a little. His eyes slid from Sherlock in his Vulcan robes to Molly in her dressing gown—nothing but her dressing gown. She was avoiding John's eyes and blushing, and was that a love bite on her neck? John's eyes slid back to Sherlock, who had not stopped talking the whole time.

"There's a lovely little closet out on the landing of 221B," continued Sherlock as he put the last of Molly's clothes in her bag. "Now, I'm not suggesting he live in there. Even I know that's inhumane. That's simply the place where we'll put his litter thing. It'll be out of the way, unseen, and won't interfere with any of my experiments. Oh, and the food, of course."

Molly smiled at John, who smirked at her, and then she looked back at the detective. "Sherlock."

"Oh, not to worry, I'll put a little door in the bottom so he can get in and out," Sherlock told her, still not looking up at them.

Molly stifled an amused smile, trying not to laugh. "Sherlock, John—"

"Oh, yes, asking John if you can move in would probably be polite," said Sherlock, still oblivious. "Excellent idea."

John put a hand over his mouth to stop him laughing. Molly's smile widened as she walked over, turned Sherlock towards her and gave him a passionate kiss.

Molly pulled away, a smile on both of their faces, and placed her hand alongside his face. "You can be really oblivious sometimes." She glanced at and nodded to John, who lowered his hand and smiled, amused, at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at the door, his brows rising in surprise at the sight of his friend. "Oh, John." He turned towards him, wrapping an arm around Molly. "Would you mind terribly if Molly moved in to Baker Street?"

John gave a shrug, still smiling. "All right by me."

"Excellent!" said Sherlock, placing a kiss on Molly's cheek. "We'll need to move some things around to make room. Shouldn't be too difficult; she'll be in my room, after all. And you'll only have to pay a third of the rent. Even better!" He zipped Molly's bag up and brought it to the door.

"Wait, a third?" asked John, his smile fading in confusion. "As in, all three of us?"

Sherlock straightened up after dropping Molly's bag by the door. "Oh, did I not mention? I'm coming back with you."

John's brows rose in surprise. "The Council _didn't_ know about your plan? You're still going through with it?"

"No and no," stated Sherlock, heading back across the room.

"Sherlock…" John groaned, rolling his eyes.

"The Council didn't know about his plans," Molly explained. "They gave him a choice to stay or go. Now, he gets to live on Earth for the rest of his life."

John gave Molly a grateful nod. "Thank you." He looked at Sherlock and immediately back at Molly. "What?"

"Yeah, they're letting him stay," Molly told him with a smile.

John smiled as he looked over at Sherlock. "Really? You're staying?"

"It would seem so," Sherlock told him, turning towards the washroom. "Oh…" he looked back at John, "could you stop by my quarters and pick up my violin?"

"Sure," said John. "I guess we'll see you out there." He started to turn away. "Oh, and Sherlock…" he gave his friend a smirk, "you have a little something…" He gestured towards his own jawline just below his ear. He turned and left, the door closing behind him.

Sherlock frowned as Molly stepped over, turning his head to have a look. "What is it?"

Molly giggled, wiping at his skin. "My lipstick."

Sherlock looked down at her hand, seeing the smudge of red on her fingers. He laughed as he ducked down to kiss her.

* * *

Sherlock followed Molly out of the door to her quarters, her bag in his hand. As he stepped up next to her, he reached down and wrapped her hand in his. Molly smiled up at him, linking her fingers with his.

"So, what do you think changed the Council's mind?" asked Molly.

"That is a very good question," said Sherlock. "The Council almost never changes their mind."

"Well, it's a mystery," shrugged Molly.

"Yes, it is." Sherlock clenched his jaw.

Molly smiled, knowing Sherlock was upset that he wasn't going to get to stay and solve the mystery. She stopped him by placing a hand on his cheek and turning his face towards her. She planted a passionate kiss on his lips. "I'll make it worth your while."

Sherlock smiled and gave her a kiss before starting to walk down the hall again. "Oh, there's something you should probably know about Vulcan biology."

"Oh, yeah, pon farr," stated Molly.

Sherlock came to a sudden stop, staring at Molly in shock.

"Seven weeks in space, Sherlock," Molly told him. "I did a lot of reading."

Sherlock stared at her another moment before giving a nervous smile.

"So, when are _you_ due?" asked Molly.

Sherlock's eyes fidgeted a little before locking with hers. "Two years."

Molly nodded. "And apparently, the Vulcan male becomes quite…insatiable."

Sherlock smirked, glancing around the corridor as he stepped closer. "And that's a Vulcan _without_ a human half." He gave her a salacious wink before moving on.

Molly giggled, walking with him as they moved through the complex towards the launch site. When they reached the ship, John, Greg and Mary were standing at the foot of the ramp discussing something.

Greg spotted them and moved around the group towards them. "So, you're coming with us?"

"Obviously," Sherlock told him.

"That's great, Sherlock," said Mary. She looked at Molly. "And you two are moving in together?"

Molly smiled at Sherlock. "Looks like."

"Could I have your flat, then?" asked Mary.

Molly laughed. "You don't tiptoe around, do you?"

Mary shook her head. "Not really."

Molly nodded at her. "Sure, you can have it."

"Thanks," Mary told her.

"So…" said Thomas as he walked up, "you're headed to Earth."

Sherlock turned towards him. "It would seem so, although I'm not sure why."

"Well, maybe the Council just changed its mind," said Thomas with a shrug. "After all, prisoners do tend to cause immense amounts of trouble."

Sherlock stared at him, the word "prisoner" triggering something in his memory.

" _It might as well be a prison sentence."_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his father. "What did you do?"

Thomas gave another shrug. "Merely pointed out how getting rid of you would remove the problems you've caused over the years."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, touched by the act. "You were listening to our conversation."

"Little bit, yeah," Thomas told him. He paused for a moment. "You don't belong here, Sherlock." He gestured to the humans. "You belong with them. You've never liked it here. You've been happier in the last week than I've ever seen you in your whole life."

Sherlock nodded gratefully and glanced over to see his mother approaching with his brother. He turned and shared a look with Molly before stepping forward.

Sherlock raised his hand, separating his fingers in a Vulcan salute. "Dif-tor heh smusma, ko-mekh."

Ainok lifted her own hand. "Dif-tor heh smusma, t'nash-veh sa-fu."

Sherlock then turned towards his father, raising his hand in the salute once again. "Live long and prosper, Father."

Thomas nodded. "You, too." He then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock in a hug.

Sherlock stood stunned for a moment before wrapping his arms around his father. Thomas pulled away and turned towards everyone else as he backed away to stand next to his wife. His gaze stopped on John.

"Take care of him," Thomas told him. He then looked at Molly, who had joined hands with Sherlock again. "Both of you."

John nodded as Molly placed her other hand on Sherlock's arm, smiling at him.

"If we've all said our goodbyes…" said Mycroft from the ramp behind them.

They all glanced back at him before bending to pick up their bags, Sherlock carrying Molly's and his violin. Greg, Mary and John headed up the ramp, and Molly squeezed Sherlock's hand once before heading up after them.

Sherlock looked back at his parents. He had never felt particularly close to either of them, especially his mother. Whether it was his newly released humanity or gratitude for what his father had done for him, he had to admit that he was going to miss them. He sent a grateful nod their way before turning and heading up into the ship.

Molly was waiting just down the corridor, smiling at him. "So…next stop Earth, hmm?"

Sherlock set the bags down as he wrapped his arms around her. He gave her a few tender kisses, smiling at her. "And just think: we have a whole seven weeks to ourselves before we have to move in with John." He smirked suggestively.

Molly smiled excitedly as Sherlock's smirk broadened. "Mm…we should get started, then." She turned and hurried off to her quarters, dragging an amused Sherlock behind her.

* * *

 **Forty-eight days later…**

John turned as the turbolift doors opened, Sherlock and Molly heading out onto the bridge. "Well, if it isn't the two lovebirds. Haven't see you guys much the last few weeks."

"Yes, well…" Sherlock smiled at Molly, "things to do." He wrapped an arm around Molly and whispered something in her ear, causing her to giggle.

"All right, don't need details," grumbled John, turning away from them to face the rest of the crew on the bridge of the _T'Plana-Hath_.

"Are the orbiting satellites diverted?" asked Mycroft.

"Two are still within range," reported Officer Nimoy. "Unable to redirect without raising suspicion."

Mycroft gave a sigh. "I suppose it will have to do. Any longer and the ship will be picked up by Earth's radar." He turned and sat down in the captain's chair. "We'll do damage control afterwards."

"Or…" Sherlock strode forward and approached the officer at the navigation station. "I'll need to borrow your chair."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" asked Mycroft.

Sherlock looked back at them all. "What does it look like? I'm taking over this landing."

"For what purpose?" asked Mycroft.

"To land it," said Sherlock, pausing a moment. "Unobserved."

"Unobserved?" asked Greg.

"I can pilot it to the surface at such a rate that radar will not be able to keep up," Sherlock explained.

"Impossible," stated Mycroft.

"I've done it," Sherlock told him.

"When you first came to Earth?" asked Molly.

Sherlock nodded. "Trust me, no one will see us coming."

Mycroft considered for a moment before gesturing towards Officer Takei, who stood and moved towards a chair at the side of the bridge.

Sherlock slid into the chair and began touching several of the buttons. He looked up at the view screen, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "You might want to take your seats." He looked back at the others with an audacious smile. "This may be intense."

John, Greg, Mary and Molly hurried to some seats at the back of the bridge.

Sherlock was pressing more buttons at the console. "Warp 1 at my command."

When no response came, Sherlock looked up at Officer Doohan at the console next to him, who, in turn, looked back at Mycroft.

Mycroft gave a single nod. "At his command."

Sherlock turned back to the console, looking up at the view screen, which showed a miniscule blue planet rapidly growing larger.

"Distance to Earth: 90 million kilometers," reported Nimoy. "70 million kilometers. 50 million."

"Warp 1 in five…four…" said Sherlock, readying his hands over the console.

John stared at the screen as the Earth began to be recognizable. It was starting to get awfully close awfully fast.

"Three…two…"

John's hands clenched as the Earth began to fill the screen. Surely, Sherlock should have switched to Warp 1 by now.

"One," said Sherlock, hitting a few buttons as Doohan did as well.

Everyone lurched forward a little in their seats as the ship suddenly decelerated.

"Steady!" cautioned Sherlock as the Earth zoomed towards them, the planet turning into a continent, a country, a countryside.

 _My God, we're going to crash,_ thought John.

"One quarter impulse!" commanded Sherlock, touching several buttons.

They lurched as the ship once again decelerated, the countryside rising towards them.

"Leveling our descent," said Sherlock, hitting a few more buttons. "Steady…"

The ground moved towards the ship as a building filled the screen, swallowing them up.

"Engines off," commanded Sherlock.

Another second later, the ship lightly touched down inside the lab at MI-7.

Sherlock glanced at his watch as he turned in his seat towards them. "Twenty-one seconds. I believe that's my new record."

"That was…unprecedented," said Mycroft, standing from his seat. "Excellent work."

Sherlock stood and moved over to his friends, motioning to the turbolift. "After you."

John, Molly, Mary and Greg headed into the turbolift, Sherlock right behind them. They each collected their belongings and met up at the entryway of the ship.

"Well, this was an exciting break from our usual," said Greg.

"Yeah, no kidding," chuckled John. "Although, I am looking forward to getting back to normal crime solving."

"So, back in business, yes?" asked Mary.

"I should hope so, now that Mycroft's people have cleared my name," Sherlock replied. "All that's left is to announce my faked death and resurrection."

The ramp suddenly opened and dropped slowly down to the floor of the lab.

"So…shall we head out into your new home?" Molly asked Sherlock with a smile.

The others laughed as Sherlock smiled and dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Vulcan was never my home," said Sherlock solemnly.

Molly exchanged a sad glance with John at the reminder of how Sherlock had been tormented by his fellow Vulcans and had never fit in.

"It was my training ground." Sherlock's gaze moved back to Molly with a challenging smile before he looked at John.

John returned the smile before Sherlock turned back to his bags.

"Well, shall we, then?" said Sherlock, picking up his violin and Molly's bag. He turned towards the ramp, his smile widening. "The game is on."

* * *

 **Don't quit yet! Still have the epilogue to read! Hope to have it up within the next two or three weeks!**


	27. Chapter 27

Epilogue

 **I did it! I got the story done on time!**

* * *

 **One year later…**

"And then, he-he just stopped emailing me," the young blonde woman, trying and failing to hold in her sobs. "N-no goodbye, no explanation that he's busy or-or away on vacation. I waited almost a m-month for him to contact me and explain w-what had happened, m-maybe apologize, but—" She finally broke down and burst into tears.

Her father, sitting next to her on the somewhat sagging brown sofa, picked up a rather frayed box of tissues and offered them to her. She pulled a tissue out and pressed it to her nose as she continued to cry. The father glanced up at the two individuals watching them—one with sympathy, one with what appeared to be vague disinterest—as he replaced the tissues, and he went back to comforting his daughter.

Across the room from them, the sympathetic woman with ash brown hair and a whimsical pink jumper jotted something down in the notepad balanced on her knee. She glanced over at the withdrawn man in the black leather armchair across from hers, who was staring intently at the two people on the sofa with his keen light blue eyes. His elbows were propped on the armrests, and his fingertips were steepled in front of his mouth, the index fingers tapping together every couple of seconds. Another few moments passed as the daughter cried before he brought his hands away from his face slightly and spoke.

"When did these pen pal disappearances first start happening?"

Both the daughter and her father looked up at him with a frown.

"About…two years ago," the woman responded hesitantly, wiping at her eyes with the tissue. "How did you know it had happened before?"

"And that was shortly after you moved back in with your father," stated the man matter-of-factly.

The daughter's frown deepened as she nodded. "I had graduated from university six months earlier."

The man nodded before looking over at the brunette woman in the faded plaid armchair next to him, lowering his voice so as not to be heard by the other two. "Stepfather posing as online boyfriend."

The brunette's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

"Breaks it off, breaks her heart," he went on. "She swears off relationships, stays at home—he still has her wage coming in." He abruptly looked back over at the father. "Mr. Windibank, you have been a complete and utter—"

"Sherlock," muttered the brunette woman in a warning tone.

The man paused, closing his eyes and cocking his head a little in acknowledgement, and opened his eyes. "What I mean to say is that I have devised a solution to your problem, Miss Windibank."

She brightened slightly in expectation.

"Move out," Sherlock told her. "Immediately."

Mr. Windibank's gaze shot up to the detective in alarm.

Miss Windibank frowned at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Move out of your father's house," responded Sherlock. "That should solve everything."

Miss Windibank only stared at him. "Move out?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. "In an attempt to keep your income close, your father has been posing as these pen pals before breaking it off and causing you to stay at home. Move out."

Miss Windibank looked over at her father, a hurt look on her face. "Is this true?"

"Of course it isn't!" exclaimed Mr. Windibank. "Your money's safe at the bank!"

"Which he takes care of for you so you won't see the withdrawals," stated Sherlock.

The father stuttered in protest as the daughter let out an affronted sound and snatched her purse from the sofa, getting to her feet and storming out the door.

"Laura, it isn't what it looks like!" Mr. Windibank called as he rushed after her.

The woman looked over at Sherlock with an impressed smile. "You know, you didn't collect the fee from them."

"Not to worry, Molly," Sherlock told her as he got to his feet. "As soon as the heat of the moment wears off, she'll be in contact in order to pay us, which I will refuse."

Molly's brows rose in surprise. "Pro bono? You usually just forget to get paid, but to refuse it?"

Sherlock picked up one of the books he had been perusing before his latest clients came in, opening it and flipping through the pages as he scanned them. "She was being robbed. She needs all the money she can get." At the silence that greeted that statement, he looked up to see an amazed smile on Molly's face. "I am capable of being nice."

"You're learning," said Molly, impressed.

"It would seem so," Sherlock stated, going back to the book.

A knock came at the door, which Sherlock completely ignored as he knew Molly would tend to it.

"I have a package for Dr. John Watson."

Sherlock turned his head towards the door to see a courier in the doorway, a box approximately ninety-two centimeters long and sixteen centimeters wide and deep. His eyes roamed over the parcel, searching for any sort of clue as to its contents, but the box appeared to be unlabeled in any way, apart from a shipping label that he couldn't read from this distance.

 _What would John purchase that would be that big?_ Sherlock wondered. _Intriguing…_

Sherlock snapped the book shut, putting on a pleasant smile as he set it down and approached the courier. "Yes, thank you, I can sign for that."

Molly stepped forward to intercept him. "Sherlock—"

"Darling, I have told you many times before to call me by my middle name," Sherlock told her in a fond voice as he accepted the handheld device, pulling the stylus from it and getting ready to sign.

Before he could sneak a look at the label on the box, the sound of feet pounding quickly up the stairs towards them drew the attention of the courier, and he turned with the box towards the staircase behind him, which managed to obstruct Sherlock's view of it.

 _Damn!_ Sherlock internally exclaimed as John reached the landing.

"Don't listen to him," John quickly told the courier. "He has no middle name." He reached past the man and yanked the device out of Sherlock's hands with an annoyed glare at him. " _I'm_ John Watson." He signed for the package and handed the device back over. "Thank you."

The courier frowned in confusion as he handed the box to John, looking back and forth between him and Sherlock. "Have a pleasant evening, sir." He turned and headed down the stairs.

John immediately turned towards the stairs up to his room, starting to climb them.

"What's in the box?" Sherlock asked from the doorway.

"Nothing," John told him firmly.

"You really expect that to work?" said Sherlock.

Molly shook her head, moving back into the sitting room. John came to a stop halfway up the stairs, heaving out a sigh. Sherlock smirked as he recognized the patented John Watson Shoulder Slump of Defeat.

John performed an about-face and marched back down the stars, his jaw clenched. "Fine." He strode past Sherlock and into the sitting room, setting the box down on the coffee table. "Knock yourself out." He moved over to the doorway, standing next to it with crossed arms.

Sherlock immediately moved over to the box, reading the return address on the shipping label, but as luck would have it, the name of the sender and most of the address had been scratched off sometime during delivery. Grimacing in annoyance, he grabbed his penknife from the table by the windows, slitting the tape along the edges of the box and lifting open the top side of the thick cardboard. He froze as his eyes landed on what was inside.

 _It can't be…_

Sherlock glanced up at John, whose eyes tracked off to the wall, avoiding his gaze. Sherlock looked back at the box and the large, black fabric case inside. It was a case he recognized immediately, and not because of the white logo printed on the top of it near the carrying handle. He grabbed hold of the handle and pulled it out of the box, setting it on the coffee table in front of it. He pulled the zipper open and lifted the case's lid.

The interior was lined with gray felt with a humidity sensor built into the lid just above where the black fiberglass bow hung strapped to the felt. Strapped into the main area of the case was an item hidden by a protective felt covering. Lifting it carefully to the side, Sherlock found a beautifully varnished violin, its wood a striped mix of light and medium brown—obviously Italian spruce and Bosnian maple.

Sherlock looked up at John, his brows drawn together. "You bought a violin?"

John gave a shrug, his gaze boring into the floor and his voice low. "Maybe."

Sherlock stared at him a bit longer before looking back down into the case, taking the instrument in and deducing its properties. "Hmm. A Scott Cao 850 Kreisler 1730." He looked back up at John, who was eyeing him nervously. "Rich tone. Excellent projection. Worn appearance concealing a profound strength." He gave John a smile. "It suits you."

John gave a small smile, still slightly embarrassed.

"How did you expect to keep this a secret?" asked Sherlock. "The sound does tend to carry."

That did the trick. Reminded of all the times Sherlock had screeched away at his own Stradivarius or woke John in the middle of the night with it, John's face broke into an amused smile as he laughed. "Don't I know it." He turned more towards the two of them. "In my defense, I wasn't even going to touch it until after I moved out next week, so you wouldn't have heard a thing anyway."

"You should have had it delivered to Mary's," Sherlock told him.

John hesitated, wincing. "I couldn't."

"Why, did her flat suddenly burn down?" Sherlock asked.

John hesitated once more. "It was supposed to be a surprise…one I really hope she has not picked up on with her telepathic abilities."

"Surprise?" asked Sherlock, confused. Why would John buying a violin be a surprise for Mary? It's not as if he bought it for her as a gift…right?

"Oh, my God!" Molly suddenly exclaimed.

Sherlock looked over at her in confusion; she was staring at John with wide eyes and excited smile. "What?"

"Are you really?" asked Molly.

Sherlock looked back at John, who also had a giant smile on his face as he nodded. "What?" he asked in frustration.

John looked at him. "I'm going to ask her to marry me."

Sherlock stared at him with a vacant expression. John's smile began to fade at Sherlock's lack of positive response. He glanced at Molly, his dejected gaze falling to the floor.

"With a violin?" Sherlock finally asked.

John looked up to see Sherlock frowning in confusion as he tried to understand the whole thing. He smiled at his friend. "Sort of. It's this whole evening I have planned."

Sherlock nodded, looking back down at the violin. He glanced up at John, cocking his head down towards the instrument. "May I?"

John shrugged, raising his brows in assent. Sherlock turned the latches inside the lid, pulling the bow out and adjusting the screw to tighten the hair. Opening the compartment near the lower bout of the violin, he pulled out a case of rosin, applying it to the bow. He then unsnapped the Velcro strap holding the violin in at the neck and raised it to his shoulder, placing his chin on the rest. After spending a moment tuning the four strings by ear, he then raised the bow to the strings and began playing.

John smiled as he instantly recognized the song. It was the one Sherlock had composed before they had left for Vulcan almost a year and a half ago. It had been one of the only positive moments during the time John had thought he was going insane. The song seemed to flow from the violin, and it spoke volumes to him. It had to have been the best song Sherlock had ever composed.

Sherlock came to a slow end, lowering the instrument.

"That really is a beautiful piece," John told him.

Sherlock began placing the violin back in the case. "You should know. You wrote it."

John smiled in amusement at the memory. "Yeah, I may have thought that at the time, but that was before I knew you were up here." He pointed towards his own head.

Sherlock latched the Velcro over the fingerboard and covered the instrument with the felt covering. "No, no, John, you did write that."

John frowned, shaking his head at his friend. "I may have been the particular outlet, but that was all you, Sherlock."

Sherlock finished tucking the accessories into the case before closing it up. "John, I promise you I did not write that. The melody is not my style."

John's frown deepened. How could it be true? Sherlock was the musician. John's expertise ended with his schoolboy clarinet lessons. Even if he could remember a thing about music, a woodwind and a string instrument were two very different things. And composing? John didn't have a creative bone in his body apart from his skills with lexicon.

"But I wouldn't have known how…" said John.

Sherlock straightened up from zipping up the case. "I may have inadvertently given you the knowledge, but trust me, the inspiration came from you."

John stared at him, astonished. _He_ had written it? He guessed it was, indeed, possible. Everyone was capable of creating melodies or even complete songs in their head; only a select few possessed the know-how to follow through with it.

"It still needs the composer's signature."

John shook himself from his thoughts to see Sherlock holding a couple sheets of paper towards him. John stared at them a moment before taking hold of them to have a look. Sure enough, there was the song that had haunted his waking moments for days before he took pen to paper to get it out.

"And a title," Sherlock added, holding a pen out as well.

John eyed the pen before smiling at Sherlock and taking it. He thought for a moment over everything the piece made him think about before a title appeared in his mind, as though waiting for him to stumble across it. John gave a smirk as he placed the sheet music on the coffee table and bent to write the title along the top.

 **A Friend's Farewell Greeting**

 **By**

 **John Watson**

Sherlock smirked at the title as John straightened back up, holding the music in front of him in appreciation.

"Better frame this," said John, looking up at them. "God knows it'll never happen again."

They chuckled as John grabbed the violin case and headed up the stairs to his room. Sherlock moved back to the book he had been perusing as Molly went into the kitchen, moving about as she began making tea.

"Can you believe it?" said Molly. "John and Mary getting married!"

Sherlock's eyes rose from the book as his fingers froze over the page. He slowly let it fall closed as his gaze fell to the floor.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock tilted his head to indicate that he was listening.

"You know nothing's going to change, right?"

Sherlock frowned as he looked up to see Molly staring at him in concern. What was she talking about?

"John will still keep you in his life after he's married," Molly told him.

Sherlock's face brightened as he realized why she thought he looked so upset. "Oh, no, no, I'm not worried about that. John's a danger addict. He won't last more than a month of domesticity before going out and trying to find trouble, preferably with me." He flashed an amused smile in her direction.

Molly returned the smile before her face fell back into a frown. "Then why so troubled?"

The smile fell from Sherlock's face as well as he hesitated before setting the book down on the table. "That conversation didn't upset you?"

Molly shook her head a little, completely lost. "Conversation…"

Sherlock nodded towards the staircase. "John and Mary. Getting married."

Molly's brows drew together as her head cocked to the left a little. "The one who would be upset about that is you, and we just established you're not, so…"

"Well, we haven't talked about…" Sherlock gestured towards her, unable to get the words out. "I mean, we're not…" He shuffled his feet a little before sighing and lowering his eyes to the floor in embarrassment, his voice barely above a whisper. "I haven't proposed."

Molly's face softened at the dejected picture he presented. "Oh, Sherlock." She stepped up in front of him, placing her hands on either side of his face to draw his eyes up to hers. She pushed up on her toes to place a loving kiss on his lips. She pulled away and smiled comfortingly at his confused frown. "I know you're not ready."

Sherlock began to open his mouth to defend himself.

"And that's okay with me," Molly quickly cut him off. "You know why?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"Because I know that we're going to spend the rest of our lives together," Molly told him, stroking her hands over the sides of his face. "I don't need a fancy ring to tell me how much you love me."

A smile crept over Sherlock's face as he lowered his head to give her a kiss. He rested his forehead against hers. "I do love you, Molly. More than I ever thought I would."

"I love you, too," Molly told him, moving her arms to wrap around the back of his neck.

"And I promise, whenever I do get around to proposing, it **will** be a **very** fancy ring."

Molly giggled as Sherlock began kissing her again. Molly squealed in surprise as Sherlock suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her from the floor, holding her fast to him. Molly laughed against his lips as Sherlock turned on the spot once and set her back down.

"Kettle's boiling, just so you know," said John.

Molly broke the kiss, looking into the kitchen to see John tending to the electric kettle. She laughed as she gave Sherlock one last kiss and pulled herself from his hold to go help John. "So, playing Mary a song on the violin."

John nodded as he pulled cups down for them all. "I've been taking lessons at a local music shop the last few months. It was a lot easier than I expected; guess it kind of came back to me."

"And you bought what apparently is an expensive, professional violin just for the occasion?" asked Molly, pouring the tea. "Why didn't you just rent one?"

"Well, I kind of…" John shrugged a little.

"Ah, taking up the violin, then?"

"I just enjoy it so much," John explained. "It relaxes me." He shared an amused smile with her. "Guess it kind of stuck around after…" He gestured towards Sherlock.

"Well, at least you got something good out of it," said Molly.

John glanced past her to Sherlock, who was pinning a piece of paper to his evidence wall and surveying the whole thing. He gave Molly a playful smile as he pointed at the detective. "I hope you mean him."

Molly closed her eyes, realizing how that had come out. "Well, of course him."

John laughed with her a moment. "I knew what you meant." He carried the tray of tea into the sitting room.

Molly took one of the cups and handed it to Sherlock.

"Ah, thank you for the tea, Molly," Sherlock told her.

"You know, I helped," John told him, sitting in his armchair. "So, any good cases today?"

"Nothing worth calling you for," Sherlock stated, his attention back on the wall. "Hence, no call."

Molly waved her hand at Sherlock as she sat in his armchair. "Two affairs, one misplaced lottery ticket and a rather dishonest father. Nothing we had to leave the flat for."

"Good," said John, taking a sip of his tea. "I would've hated to have missed anything."

"See, Molly?" stated Sherlock. "Addict." He took a drink of his tea.

Molly laughed as John looked between the two of them in confusion.

"Addict?" asked John.

Molly waved him off. "Nothing."

"Yes, of course!" exclaimed Sherlock suddenly. "I've been an idiot! A blind idiot!" He set his tea down none too gently on the coffee table, ripping his dressing gown off and flinging it onto the sofa. "John, your coat!"

John jumped to his feet as Sherlock yanked his Belstaff from the back of the door and threw it on. John pulled his from the hook next to it.

"If we're quick enough, we may just prevent the collapse of Western civilization," Sherlock rattled off, hurriedly fixing his scarf around his neck. He hurried out the door, John hot on his heels.

They were halfway down the first set of stairs before Sherlock came to a sudden halt and turned right back around, John scrambling to a stop and pushing himself against the wall to get out of his friend's way.

Sherlock hurried back up the stairs, strode straight to his armchair and bent to place a kiss on Molly's lips. "See you tonight. Happy anniversary."

Molly smiled at the fact that he remembered the anniversary of the night they started dating all on his own. "Have fun."

Sherlock smiled and went back out the door, where John was waiting with an amused smile.

* * *

Sherlock woke slowly in the middle of the night, stretching his hand out beside him and discovering an empty bed. He lifted his head, looking towards the window across from the foot of the bed. Molly stood in front of it in her dressing gown, staring out into the night.

Sherlock lay there for a moment, watching her. She looked like an angel bathed in the moonlight, her hair falling elegantly over her shoulder. He could see the side of her face from where he was, and she had the most peaceful expression on her face as she stared out the window. Smiling, Sherlock grabbed the sheet from the bed, wrapping it around himself as he got up and moved over to her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, encasing them both in the sheet. Molly reached up, placing her hands on his arms.

Sherlock laid his chin on her left shoulder, holding her close. "What are you thinking about?"

Molly leaned back into him, humming contently. "Vulcan."

Sherlock turned his head to look at her, surprised. "Vulcan?"

Molly nodded, her eyes on the stars. "What you would be doing right now if you hadn't come back with us."

Sherlock stared at her a moment before glancing up at the stars. "Probably holding vigil on the peak of Mount Kispek. It's the tallest point on Vulcan."

"To see the stars better?" asked Molly.

Sherlock paused for a moment. "To be closer to you."

Molly turned towards him in his arms, staring at the serious look in his eyes. He seemed to be lost in his mind palace as he stared at the stars, thinking about what his life could have been like if he had stayed on Vulcan. Molly slid her arms up between them, wrapping them around his neck.

"I'm here," Molly assured him, giving him a kiss. "You're here, and I'm here." She kissed him again. "It never happened."

Sherlock tightened his hold on Molly, kissing her before pulling away and taking hold of her hand. He led her back to the bed, where she removed her gown and climbed back under the replaced sheet and blanket next to him. Sherlock pulled her close, cradling her head against his chest. They lay together for several minutes before Molly broke the silence.

"I still can't believe you gave all of that up," Molly told him.

"All what?" said Sherlock. "The ridiculous rituals? The uptight society? The complete lack of emotion? The isolation from the entire planet's population? The incessant boredom—" He pulled suddenly away from her to look her in the face, his voice having risen in his agitation. "There's no crime on Vulcan, Molly! None!"

Molly leaned up onto her elbow next to him, giggling at the thought of Sherlock Holmes, world's greatest crime-solving mind, stuck on the most crimeless place in the universe. "Yeah, I know, but…it's your home, your family."

Sherlock tucked the hair that had fallen into her face behind her ear. "You're my family."

Molly smiled and leaned forward for a kiss. "I guess I just can't imagine leaving the place—the _planet_ —I grew up on to go live on another, never to see it again."

Sherlock smiled and pulled her back down into his arms. "My family will tell my story. After all, my parents do have a new son to carry on the family."

Molly hesitated for a while before speaking. "And who knows? Maybe one day, his descendents will meet our descendents."

"Come on, Molly. What are the chances of that?"

Molly gave a shrug next to him. "You never know. They may track each other down. Solkar's children will have his stories about you to pass down, and our child will have our stories."

"Definitely," said Sherlock, closing his eyes, completely content with this moment in time. It was perfect. Nothing was better than being here on Earth in London with Molly by his side. Let Solkar and his future children keep their rituals and—

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. _Children. Molly hadn't said our_ _ **children**_ _. She had said our_ _ **child**_ _._

Sherlock leaned away from Molly to find her looking up at him with a wide, excited smile. He glanced towards her midsection and back up to her eyes, raising his brows in question. Molly nodded nervously, her smile growing even wider, if that was possible.

A smile burst onto Sherlock's face as he pulled Molly back for a kiss. "Whose side of the family do you think it'll take after? Yours or mine?"

Molly laughed before Sherlock rolled her onto her back, proceeding to show her just how much he enjoyed her anniversary present for him.

* * *

 **Two hundred and seventy-four years later…**

" _Captain's log, stardate 8442.6. Having been demoted to the rank of captain, I have been assigned to the newly-christened_ USS Enterprise-A _, along with my senior staff. While the crew familiarizes themselves with the new ship, we have chosen this time to celebrate the return of our comrade, Captain Spock."_

Captain James T. Kirk entered the observation lounge, finding that the dining staff had set up the dishes and silverware in preparation for the small celebration. It only took a moment before his crew began filing in, Spock being the last to arrive.

"Spock!" several of them exclaimed as they stepped forward to greet him.

Spock shook hands with each of them before dinner began, and as the meal wound down, conversation struck up.

"Happy to be yourself again, Dr. McCoy?" Commander Nyota Uhura asked.

Dr. Leonard McCoy raised his brows as he shook his head. "Boy am I ever." He glanced at Spock. "No offense."

Spock gave a noncommittal shrug. "You forget, doctor. I am Vulcan; I have no ego to bruise."

"I'm just glad the refusion worked, what with them not having done it in so long," McCoy stated.

"That is actually not true," Spock told them.

"What isn't true?" asked Commander Pavel Chekov.

"That the ritual hasn't been performed in thousands of years," Spock told them with a straight face. "It has."

"A Vulcan?" McCoy asked in a sarcastic tone. "Lie?"

"An omission," Spock replied. "The majority of Vulcan prefers to pretend that my great-great uncle Sherlock did not exist."

"Ooh, I sense a wee skeleton in the family closet," Captain Montgomery Scott, or "Scotty" as he was known to them, said in his Scottish accent with a smile.

"No, Sherlock was buried on Earth centuries ago," Spock replied.

"No, Spock, he means a family secret," Kirk explained.

"Oh," stated Spock before nodding once. "More of a legend than a secret."

"Well, now you **have** to tell us," said Commander Hikaru Sulu as he sat forward in interest.

Spock straightened in his seat as he prepared to tell the story. "It began three hundred and eight years ago when a Vulcan scientist arranged a survey mission near Earth."

One of the staff came along the table, refilling their drinks.

"The ship came under duress and crashed on Earth," Spock went on.

The officer made it to the end of the table, refilling the captain's glass.

"Thank you, Holmes," said Kirk with a nod to the officer.

The officer nodded to his captain before making his way over to the refreshments table along the wall, listening in to what was being said.

"Thomas decided to stay on Vulcan and marry Ainok," Spock was saying. "A few years later, Sherlock was born, the first half-human and half-Vulcan in history."

Officer William Holmes smiled at the familiar tale. He wished he could stay to listen to his distant cousin's version of the story he knew so well, but he was needed elsewhere. As Spock continued his story, Holmes moved out into the corridor, smiling at the memories his superior officers had brought up of his ancestor.

* * *

 **The End!**

 **Now, for those of you who follow me as an author, I want to warn you that I probably won't be starting another story until May or so. With my last semester before graduation, I don't want to start a story and then get too busy and leave you guys hanging. But I think I know exactly which story I'm going to get to when May comes. See ya then!**


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